XI.
The Swallow.
FOolish Prater, what do'st thou
So early at my window do
With thy tuneless Serenade?
Well t'had been had Tereus made
Thee as Dumb as Philomel;
There his Knife had done but well.
In thy undiscover'ed Nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dream'est ore thy summer joys
Free from the stormy seasons noise:
Free from th' Ill thou'st done to me;
Who disturbs, or seeks out Thee?
Had'st thou all the charming notes
Of all the woods poetick Throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou'st ta'ne from me away;
Cruel Bird, thou'st ta'ne away
A Dream out of my arms to day,
A Dream that ne're must equal'd bee
By all that waking Eyes may see.
Thou this damage to repaire,
Nothing half so sweet or faire,
Nothing half so good can'st bring,
Though men say, Thou bring'st the Spring. |
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