AS it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Save the Nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn
Leand her breast up-till a thorn,
there sung the dolefullst ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;
by and by;
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mournst in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
trees they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead,
friends are lappd in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like
None alive will pity me.
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