On His Mistress Drowned

Lyrics

Sweet stream, that dost with equal pace, Both thyself fly and thyself chase, Forbear a while to flow; And listen to my woe. Then go, and tell the sea: That all its brine Is fresh, compared to mine; Inform it, that the gentler dame, Who was the life of all my flame, In th' glory of her bud, Has passed the fatal flood; Death, by this only stroke, triumphs above The greatest power of love. Alas! alas! I must give o'er; My sighs will let me add no more. Go on, sweet stream, and henceforth rest No more than does my troubled breast. And if my sad complaints have made thee stay: These tears, these tears, shall mend thy way.