Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/192

 Fair Dove and Darwen 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 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.