A Rill

So when the pretty rill a place espies, Where with the pebbles she would wantonize, And that her upper stream so much doth wrong her To drive her thence, and let her play no longer; If she with too loud mutt'ring ran away, As being much incens'd to leave her play, A western, mild and pretty whispering gale Came dallying with the leaves along the dale, And seem'd as with the water it did chide, Because it ran so long unpacified: Yea, and methought it bade her leave that coil, Or he would choke her up with leaves and soil: Whereat the riv'let in my mind did weep, And hurl'd her head into a silent deep. From Britannia's Pastorals.