On the proud bankes of great Euphrates flood,
There we sate, and there we wept:
Our Harpes that now no Musicke understood,
Nodding on the Willowes slept,
While unhappy captiv'd wee
Lovely Sion thought on thee.

They, they that snatcht us from our Countries brest
Would have a Song carv'd to their Eares
In Hebrew numbers, then (o cruell jest!)
When Hrapes and hearts were drown'd in Teares:
Come, they cry'd, come sing and play
One of Sions songs to day.

Sing? play? to whom (ah) shall we sing or play,
If not Jerusalem to thee?
Ah thee Jerusalem! ah sooner may
This hand forget the mastery
Of Musicks dainty touch, then I
The Musicke of thy memory.

Which when I lose, o may at once my Tongue
Lose this same busie speaking art
Unpearcht, her vocall Arteries unstrung,
No more acquainted with my Heart,
On my dry pallats roofe to rest
A wither'd Leafe, an idle Guest.

No, no, thy good, Sion, alone must crowne
The head of all my hope-nurst joyes.
But Edom cruell thou! thou cryd'st downe, downe
Sinke Sion, downe and never rise,
Her falling thou did'st urge and thrust,
And haste to dash her into dust.

Dost laugh? proud Babels Daughter! do, laugh on,
Till thy ruine teach thee Teares,
Even such as these, laugh, till a venging throng
Of woes, to late doe rouze thy feares.
Laugh, till thy childrens bleeding bones
Weepe pretious Teares upon the stones.