The Sheapherd's Sirena

Neare to the Siluer Trent,
Sirena dwelleth:
Shee to whom Nature lent
All that excelleth:
By which the Muses late,
And the neate Graces,
Haue for their greater state
Taken their places:
Twisting an Anadem,
Wherewith to Crowne her,
As it belong'd to them
Most to renowne her.
On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let the Swanes sing her,
And with their Musick,
Along let them bring her.

Tagus and Pactolus
Are to thee Debter,
Nor for their gould to vs
Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest,
Be thou the Riuer,
Which as the daintiest,
Puts them downe euer,
For as my precious one,    
O'r thee doth trauell,
She to Pearl Parragon
Turneth thy grauell.
On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
Along let them bring her.

Our mournefull Philomell,
That rarest Tuner,               
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.                                   
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,                              
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.
On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,                                 
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:                                       
Nor flower is so sweete
In this large Cincture
But it upon her feete
Leaueth some Tincture.
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,                                 
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,                                   
As in her glasses.
On thy Bancke,
In a Ranke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
Along let them bring her.

When shee lookes out by night,
The Starres stand gazing,
Like Commets to our sight
Fearefully blazing,                                    
As wondring at her eyes
With their much brightnesse,
Which to amaze the skies,
Dimming their lightnesse,
The raging Tempests are Calme,
When shee speaketh,
Such most delightsome balme
From her lips breaketh.
On thy Banke,
In a Rancke, &c.                                     

In all our Brittany,
Ther's not a fayrer,
Nor can you fitt any:
Should you compare her.
Angels her eye-lids keepe
All harts surprizing,
Which looke whilst she doth sleepe
Like the Sunnes rising:
She alone of her kinde
Knoweth true measure                                   
And her vnmatched mind
Is Heauens treasure:
On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke
Let thy Swanes sing her,
And with their Musick,
Along let them bring her.

Fayre Doue and Darwine cleere
Boast yee your beauties,
To Trent your Mistres here                              
Yet pay your duties,
My Loue was higher borne
Tow'rds the full Fountaines,
Yet she doth Moorland scorne,
And the Peake Mountaines;
Nor would she none should dreame,
Where she abideth,
Humble as is the streame,
Which by her slydeth,
On thy Bancke,                                       
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swannes sing her,
And with their Musicke,
Along let them bring her.

Yet my poore Rusticke Muse,
Nothing can moue her,
Nor the means I can vse,
Though her true Louer:
Many a long Winters night,
Haue I wak'd for her,                                  
Yet this my piteous plight,
Nothing can stirre her.
All thy Sands siluer Trent
Downe to the Humber,
The sighes I haue spent
Neuer can number.
On thy Banke
In a Ranke,
Let thy Swans sing her
And with their Musicke                                  
Along let them bring her.