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.