Classic Poem

To L. Blundeston of Ingratitude.

The little bird, the tender marlion,
That useth oft upon the lark to prey,
With great reproach doth stain the mind of man,
If all be true that writers of her say.
For she, a creature maimed of reason's part,
And framed to live according to her kind,
Doth seem to foster reason in her heart,
And to aspire unto diviner mind.
When hunger's rage she hath exiled quite,
And supped well as falleth for her state,
The seely lark doth take by force of flight,
And hies to tree whereas she lodged late,
And on the trembling bird all night she stands,
To keep her feet from force of nipping cold.
The amazed wretch, within her enemy's hands
And closed fast within the clasping hold,
Awaiteth death with drowsy drooping heart,
And all the night with fear draws on her life.
The gentle bird, when darkness doth depart,
Doth not deprive the seely soul of life,
Nor fills with her, her hungered eager breast,
But weighing well the service she hath done,
To spill the blood her nature doth detest,
And from so great a crime herself doth shun.
She lets her go; and more, with steadfast eyes
Beholds which way she takes with mazed flight,
And in those parts that day she never flies,
Lest on that bird again she chance to light.
Lo, Blund'ston, here, how kindness doth abound
In seely souls where reason is exiled.
This bird alone sufficeth to confound
The brutish minds of men that are defiled
With that great vice, that vile and heinous crime,
Ingratitude (which some unkindness call),
That poison strong that springeth still with time,
Till at the length, it hath infected all.