The Dead Sparrow Poem by William Cartwright

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.