To halfe the river; there did silver runne:
The other halfe ran clowdes; where the curl’d wood
With his exalted head threaten’d the floude.
Here could I wish us ever passing by
And never past; now Newarke is too nigh:
And as a Christmas seemes a day but short,
Deluding time with revells and good sport;
So did these beauteous mixtures us beguile,
And the whole twelve, being travail’d, seem’d a mile.
Now as the way was sweet, soe was the end;