Thomas Sprat (1635–1713)

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.