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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

William Cartwright's other poems:
  1. On One Weepeing
  2. A Dream Broke
  3. A Song of Dalliance
  4. Love But One
  5. On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman That Died Suddenly

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