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.

When shee lookes out by night,
The Starres stand gazing,
Like Commets to our sight
Fearefully blazing, 270
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. 
Cho. On thy Banke,
In a Rancke, &c. 280

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 290
And her vnmatched mind
Is Heauens treasure: 
Cho. On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke
Let thy Swanes sing her,
And with their Musick,
Along let them bring her.