Classic Poem

Poore bird! I doe not envie thee;
Pleas'd in the gentle Melodie
Of thy owne Song.
Let crabbed winter Silence all
The winged Quire; he never shall
Chaine up thy Tongue:
Poore Innocent!
When I would please my selfe, I looke on thee;
And guess some sparkes of that Felicitie,
That Selfe-Content.

When the bleake Face of winter Spreads
The Earth, and violates the Meads
Of all their Pride;
When Sapless Trees and Flowers are fled,
Back to their Causes, and lye dead
To all beside:
I see thee Set,
Bidding defiance to the bitter Ayre,
Upon a wither'd Spray; by cold made bare,
And drooping yet.

There, full in notes, to ravish all
My Earth, I wonder what to call
My dullness; when
I heare thee, prettie Creature, bring
Thy better odes of Praise, and Sing,
To puzzle men:
Poore pious Elfe!
I am instructed by thy harmonie,
To sing the Time's uncertaintie,
Safe in my Selfe.

Poore Redbreast, caroll out thy Laye,
And teach us mortalls what to saye.
Here cease the Quire
Of ayerie Choristers; noe more
Mingle your notes; but catch a Store
From her Sweet Lire;
You are but weake,
Mere summer Chanters; you have neither wing
Nor voice, in winter. Prettie Redbreast, Sing,
What I would speake.