This page needs to be proofread.
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.
�� �
