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 turnèd,
He, as it had been night,
In clouds hath mournèd.
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,
Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/190
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