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Sirena

by
 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 belong'd 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.
.
.
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 suffer'd wrong, The Morning weepeth.
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; 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 she passes, So herself to behold As in her glasses.
On thy bank.
.
.
When she looks out by night, The stars stand gazing, Like comets to our sight Fearfully blazing; As wond'ring 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 delightsome balm From her lips breaketh.
On thy bank.
.
.
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 unmatched mind Is heaven's treasure.
On thy bank.
.
.
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 pour 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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