Item.
WHen Sunne the earth least shadow spares,
And highest stalles in heauen his seat,
Then Lyners peeble bones he bares,
Who like a lambe, doth lowly bleat,
And faintly sliding euery rock,
Plucks from his foamy fleece a lock:
Before, a riuer, now a rill,
Before, a fence, now scarce a bound;
Children him ouer-leape at will,
Small beasts, his deepest bottome sound.
The heauens with brasse enarch his head,
And earth, of yron makes his bed,
But when the milder-mooded skie,
His face in mourning weedes doth wrap,
For absence of his clearest eie,
And drops teares in his Centers lap,
Lyner gynnes Lyon-like to roare,
And scornes old bankes should bound him more.
Then, second Sea, he rolles, and bear's,
Rockes in his wombe, rickes on his backe.
Downe-borne bridges, vptorne wear's,
Witnesse, and wayle, his force, their wracke.
Into mens houses fierce he breakes,
And on each stop, his rage he wreakes.
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