Our mournefull _Philomell_, That rarest Tuner, 200 Henceforth in _Aperill_ Shall wake the sooner, And to her shall complaine From the thicke Couer, Redoubling euery straine Ouer and ouer: For when my Loue too long Her Chamber keepeth; As though it suffered wrong, The Morning weepeth. 210 Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Rancke, Let thy Swanes sing her, And with their Musick, Along let them bring her._ Oft have I seene the Sunne To doe her honour. Fix himselfe at his noone, To look vpon her, And hath guilt euery Groue, 220 Euery Hill neare her, With his flames from aboue, Striuing to cheere her, And when shee from his sight Hath her selfe turned, He as it had beene night, In Cloudes hath mourned. Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Rancke, Let thy Swanns sing her, 230 And with their Musicke, Along let them bring her._ The Verdant Meades are seene, When she doth view them, In fresh and gallant Greene, Straight to renewe them, And euery little Grasse Broad it selfe spreadeth, Proud that this bonny Lasse Vpon it treadeth: 240 Nor flower is so sweete In this large Cincture But it upon her feete Leaueth some Tincture. Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Rancke, Let thy Swanes sing her, And with thy Musick, Along let them bring her._ The Fishes in the Flood, 250 When she doth Angle, For the Hooke striue a good Them to intangle; And leaping on the Land From the cleare water, Their Scales vpon the sand, Lauishly scatter; Therewith to paue the mould Whereon she passes, So her selfe to behold, 260 As in her glasses. Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Ranke, Let thy Swanns sing her, And with their Musicke, Along let them bring her._