Those numbers they will hit, out of their genuine vein
Which many wise and learn'd can hardly e'er attain.
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Anodd gwybod pa mor aml yr oedd Drayton
a'i dafod yn ei foch wrth draethu'r pethau clod
forus hyn, ond yn ddiau yr oedd y "noble
Britons" a'u deallai wrth eu bodd yn eu
gwrando! Buasai'n ddiddorol canlyn y bardd
drwy'r Siroedd, ond digoned rhoddi disgrifiad
gwynt y Gogledd o Ddyffryn Clwyd:
Dear Clwyd, th' abundant sweets that from thy bosom flow,
When with my active wings into the air I throw,
Those hills whose hoary heads seem in the clouds to dwell,
Of age'd become young, enamour'd with the smell
Of th' odoriferous flowers in thy most precious lap;
Within whose velvet leaves, when I myself enwrap,
They suffocate with scents; that (from my native kind)
I seem some slow perfume, and not the swiftest wind.
With joy, my Dyffryn Clwyd, I see thee bravely spread,
Surveying every part from foot up to thy head;
Thy full and youthful breasts, which in their meadowy pride,
Are brancht with rivery veins, meander-like that glide.
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