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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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