MICHAEL DRAYTON

Fair Dove and Darnven clear,

Boast ye your beauties, To Trent your mistress here

Yet pay your duties : My Love was higher born

Tow'rds the full fountains, Yet she doth moorland scorn

And the Peak mountains ; Nor would she none should dream

Where she abideth, Humble as is the stream

Which by her slideth.

On thy bank . . .

Yet my poor rustic Muse Nothing can move her, Nor the means I can use, Though her true lover: Many a long winter's night

Have I waked for her, Yet this my piteous plight

Nothing can stir her. All thy sands, silver Trent,

Down to the Number, The sighs that I have spent Never can number. On thy bank, In a rank,

Let thy swans sing her, And with their music

Along let them bring her.

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