The Dead Sparrow

Tell me not of Joy: there's none
Now my little Sparrow's gone;
He, just as you
Would toy and wooe,
He would chirp and flatter me,
He would hang the Wing a while,
Till at length he saw me smile,
Lord how sullen he would be?

He would catch a Crumb, and then
Sporting let it go agen,
He from my Lip
Would moysture sip,
He would from my Trencher feed,
Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry Philip when h' had done,
O whose heart can choose but bleed?

O how eager would he fight?
And ne'r hurt though he did bite:
No Morn did pass
But on my Glass
He would sit, and mark, and do
What I did, now ruffle all
His Feathers o'r, now let 'em fall,
And then straightway sleek 'em too.

Whence will Cupid get his Darts
Feather'd now to peirce our hearts?
A wound he may,
Not Love conveigh,
Now this faithfull Bird is gone,
O let Mournfull Turtles joyn
With Loving Red-breasts, and combine
To sing Dirges o'r his Stone.
Rate this poem: 

Become a Patron!

Reviews

No reviews yet.