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.

William Browne

William Browne (1590–1645) was an English poet from Tavistock, Devon. Best known for his pastoral poetry, Browne's notable works include 'Britannia's Pastorals'. His poetry reflects the influence of Edmund Spenser and his themes often revolve around nature, rural life, and patriotic sentiments. Although his work was not widely known during his time, it has since gained recognition for its lyrical quality and depiction of English countryside traditions.

William Browne

Spring Morning - I

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Night

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Venus by Adonis' Side

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Visions - Sonnet - 2

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English

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Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting make
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Not a breath of air
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Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm
Where all things else are still and motionless.
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Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,
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Now as an angler melancholy standing
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Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,
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Morning

The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yet
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The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd,
Nor was the sharp and useful-steering goad
Laid on the strong-neck'd ox; no gentle bud
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Low levell'd on the grass; no fly's quick sting
Enforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring
To tear the passive earth, nor lash his tail
About his buttocks broad; the slimy snail
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Winding meanders and self-knitting traces,
Be follow'd where he stuck, his glittering slime
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There Is A Little Unpretending Rill

There is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
That ever among Men or Naiads sought
Notice or name! It quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought
Of private recollection sweet and still!
Months perish with their moons; year treads on year!
But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say
That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
And flies their memory fast almost as they;
The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.

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