Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/202

 MICHAEL DRAYTON

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, Their scales upon the sand

Lavishly scatter, Therewith to pave the mould

Whereon bhe passes, So herself to behold

As in her glasses.

On thy bank. ..

When she looks out by night,

The stars stand ga'/mg, Like comets to our sight

Fearfully bla/ing, As wondVing at her eyes

With their much brightness, Which so amaze the skies,

Dimming their lightness.

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