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, 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 unmatchèd 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 poor 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._ _119._ _Agincourt_