Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/201

 MICHAEL DRAYTON

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 kecpeth, As though it suffer'd wrong,

The Morning wcepeth.

On thy bank. ..

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;

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