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Poem by William Cartwright
The Dead Sparrow
TELL me not of joy: there's none Now my little Sparrow's gone; He, just as you, Would try and woo, He would chirp and flatter me; He would hang the wing awhile, Till at length he saw me smile, Lord, how sullen he would be! He would catch a crumb, and then Sporting, let it go again; He from my lip Would moisture sip; He would from my trencher feed; Then would hop, and then would run, And cry Philip when he'd done, whose heart can choose but bleed? O how eager would he fight, And ne'er 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'er, now let them fall; And straightway sleek them too. Whence will Cupid get his darts Feathered now to pierce our hearts? A wound he may Not, Love, convey, Now this faithful bird is gone let mournful turtles join, With loving redbreasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone.
William Cartwright's other poems:
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