The Trent
Near to the silver Trent
— Sirena dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
— All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
— And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
— Taken their places,
Twisting an anadem
— Wherewith to crown her,
As it belonged to them
— Most to renown her.
— On thy bank ,
— In a rank ,
— Let thy swans sing her ,
And with their music
— Along let them bring her .
Tagus and Pactolus
— Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
— Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
— Be thou the river
Which, as the daintiest,
— Puts them down ever:
For as my precious one
— O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
— Turneth thy gravel.
On thy bank, &c.
Our mournful Philomel,
— That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in Aperil
— Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain
— From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
— Over and over:
For when my Love too long
— Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffered wrong,
— The morning weepeth.
On thy bank, &c.
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 turnid,
He, as it had been night,
— In clouds hath mournid.
On thy bank, &c.
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, &c.
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,
Their scales upon the sand
— Lavishly scatter,
Therewith to pave the mould
— Whereon she passes,
So herself to behold
— As in her glasses.
On thy bank, &c.
When she looks out by night
— The stars stand gazing,
Like comets to our sight
— Fearfully blazing,
As wondering at her eyes
— With their much brightness,
Which so amaze the skies,
— Dimming their lightness.
The raging tempests are calm
— When she speaketh,
Such most delightful balm
— From her lips breaketh.
On thy bank, &c.
In all our Brittany
— There 's not a fairer,
Nor can you fit any
— Should you compare her:
Angels her eyelids keep,
— All hearts surprising,
Which look, whilst she doth sleep,
— Like the sun's rising:
She alone of her kind
— Knoweth true measure,
And her unmatchid mind
— Is heaven's treasure.
On thy bank, &c.
Fair Dove and Darwen clear,
— Boast ye your beauties,
To Trent your mistress here
— Yet pay your duties:
My Love was higher born
— Towards 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, &c.
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 Humber,
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 .
Near to the silver Trent
— Sirena dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
— All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
— And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
— Taken their places,
Twisting an anadem
— Wherewith to crown her,
As it belonged to them
— Most to renown her.
— On thy bank ,
— In a rank ,
— Let thy swans sing her ,
And with their music
— Along let them bring her .'
Tagus and Pactolus
— Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
— Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
— Be thou the river
Which, as the daintiest,
— Puts them down ever:
For as my precious one
— O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
— Turneth thy gravel.
On thy bank, &c.
Our mournful Philomel,
— That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in Aperil
— Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain
— From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
— Over and over:
For when my Love too long
— Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffered wrong,
— The morning weepeth.
On thy bank, &c.
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 turnid,
He, as it had been night,
— In clouds hath mournid.
On thy bank, &c.
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, &c.
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,
Their scales upon the sand
— Lavishly scatter,
Therewith to pave the mould
— Whereon she passes,
So herself to behold
— As in her glasses.
On thy bank, &c.
When she looks out by night
— The stars stand gazing,
Like comets to our sight
— Fearfully blazing,
As wondering at her eyes
— With their much brightness,
Which so amaze the skies,
— Dimming their lightness.
The raging tempests are calm
— When she speaketh,
Such most delightful balm
— From her lips breaketh.
On thy bank, &c.
In all our Brittany
— There 's not a fairer,
Nor can you fit any
— Should you compare her:
Angels her eyelids keep,
— All hearts surprising,
Which look, whilst she doth sleep,
— Like the sun's rising:
She alone of her kind
— Knoweth true measure,
And her unmatchid mind
— Is heaven's treasure.
On thy bank, &c.
Fair Dove and Darwen clear,
— Boast ye your beauties,
To Trent your mistress here
— Yet pay your duties:
My Love was higher born
— Towards 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, &c.
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 Humber,
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 .
— Sirena dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
— All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
— And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
— Taken their places,
Twisting an anadem
— Wherewith to crown her,
As it belonged to them
— Most to renown her.
— On thy bank ,
— In a rank ,
— Let thy swans sing her ,
And with their music
— Along let them bring her .
Tagus and Pactolus
— Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
— Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
— Be thou the river
Which, as the daintiest,
— Puts them down ever:
For as my precious one
— O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
— Turneth thy gravel.
On thy bank, &c.
Our mournful Philomel,
— That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in Aperil
— Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain
— From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
— Over and over:
For when my Love too long
— Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffered wrong,
— The morning weepeth.
On thy bank, &c.
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 turnid,
He, as it had been night,
— In clouds hath mournid.
On thy bank, &c.
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, &c.
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,
Their scales upon the sand
— Lavishly scatter,
Therewith to pave the mould
— Whereon she passes,
So herself to behold
— As in her glasses.
On thy bank, &c.
When she looks out by night
— The stars stand gazing,
Like comets to our sight
— Fearfully blazing,
As wondering at her eyes
— With their much brightness,
Which so amaze the skies,
— Dimming their lightness.
The raging tempests are calm
— When she speaketh,
Such most delightful balm
— From her lips breaketh.
On thy bank, &c.
In all our Brittany
— There 's not a fairer,
Nor can you fit any
— Should you compare her:
Angels her eyelids keep,
— All hearts surprising,
Which look, whilst she doth sleep,
— Like the sun's rising:
She alone of her kind
— Knoweth true measure,
And her unmatchid mind
— Is heaven's treasure.
On thy bank, &c.
Fair Dove and Darwen clear,
— Boast ye your beauties,
To Trent your mistress here
— Yet pay your duties:
My Love was higher born
— Towards 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, &c.
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 Humber,
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 .
Near to the silver Trent
— Sirena dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
— All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
— And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
— Taken their places,
Twisting an anadem
— Wherewith to crown her,
As it belonged to them
— Most to renown her.
— On thy bank ,
— In a rank ,
— Let thy swans sing her ,
And with their music
— Along let them bring her .'
Tagus and Pactolus
— Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
— Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
— Be thou the river
Which, as the daintiest,
— Puts them down ever:
For as my precious one
— O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
— Turneth thy gravel.
On thy bank, &c.
Our mournful Philomel,
— That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in Aperil
— Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain
— From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
— Over and over:
For when my Love too long
— Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffered wrong,
— The morning weepeth.
On thy bank, &c.
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 turnid,
He, as it had been night,
— In clouds hath mournid.
On thy bank, &c.
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, &c.
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,
Their scales upon the sand
— Lavishly scatter,
Therewith to pave the mould
— Whereon she passes,
So herself to behold
— As in her glasses.
On thy bank, &c.
When she looks out by night
— The stars stand gazing,
Like comets to our sight
— Fearfully blazing,
As wondering at her eyes
— With their much brightness,
Which so amaze the skies,
— Dimming their lightness.
The raging tempests are calm
— When she speaketh,
Such most delightful balm
— From her lips breaketh.
On thy bank, &c.
In all our Brittany
— There 's not a fairer,
Nor can you fit any
— Should you compare her:
Angels her eyelids keep,
— All hearts surprising,
Which look, whilst she doth sleep,
— Like the sun's rising:
She alone of her kind
— Knoweth true measure,
And her unmatchid mind
— Is heaven's treasure.
On thy bank, &c.
Fair Dove and Darwen clear,
— Boast ye your beauties,
To Trent your mistress here
— Yet pay your duties:
My Love was higher born
— Towards 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, &c.
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 Humber,
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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