MICHAEL DRAYTON
The raging tempests are calm
When she speaketh, Such most delightsome balm
From her lips breaketh.
On thy bank . . .
In all our Brtttany
There 's not a fairer, Nor can you fit any
Should ^ou compare her. Angels her eyelids keep,
All hearts surprising, Which look whilst she doth sleep
Lake the sun's rising She alone of her kind
Knowcth true measure, And her unmatched mind
Is heaven's treasure.
On thy bank . . .
Fair Dove and Darzuen clear,
Boast ye your beauties, To Trent your mistress here
Yet pay your duties. My Love was higher born
TowVds 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 . . .
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