MICHAEL DRAYTON

Oft have I seen the Sun,

To do her honour, Fix himself at his noon

To look upon her; And hath gilt every grove,

Every hill near her, 'With his flames from above

Striving to cheer her: And when she from his sight

Hath herself turned, He, as it had been night,

In clouds hath mourned.

On thy bank . .

The verdant meads are seen,

When she doth view them, In fresh and gallant green

Straight to renew them; And every little grass

Broad itself spreadeth, Proud that this bonny lass

Upon it treadeth : Nor flower is so sweet

In this large cincture, But it upon her feet

Leaveth some tincture.

On thy bank .

The fishes in the flood, When she doth angle,

For the hook strive a-good Them to entangle;

And leaping on the land, From the clear water,

�� �