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: 


No reviews yet.