To a Stream.
Cleer Stream, who dost with equal pace both thy self fly
Cleer Stream, who dost with equal pace both thy self fly, and thy self chace;
forbear a while to flow, and listen to my woe: Then go and tell the Sea that all his Brine is fresh, compar'd
to mine. Inform him that the gentle Dame who was the life of all my flame, i'th' glory of her
bud hath past the dismal flood: Death by this only stroke Triumphs above the gentle pow'r of Love.
Alas, Alas! I must give o're, my sighs will let me add no more. Go on, cleer Stream, but rest no more my
troubled breast: And if my sad Complaint hath made thee stay, ther's Tears ther's Tears to mend thy way.
