Nothinge on earth remaynes to shew so ryght The patterne true of my encreasinge Care As Philomela with her songe by nyghte Whose rufull state to myne I thus compare With carefull watch She pearcheth in the tree When creatures all into theyre nests do creepe So from myne eyes all sweete repose doth flye When men are wonte of course to take their slepe She with a thorne againste her tender Breste I with the darte of cruell loves unreste This gentell Byrde her yeldinge voyc doth straine To wayle the wronges that Progne dyd endure I happles man uppon the wighte Complayne That causeles doth to me theis greyfs procure And when Shee doth her tunes so dolefull frame As well might move the heavens to moane her plight O greefe off greyfs, yet such as heare the same Rue not her songe But therein take delyghte Likewise my plaints which bringe from me salte teares Seme pleasaunte notes unto my mystres eares. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THANKSGIVING DAY by LYDIA MARIA CHILD THE LAW OF THE YUKON by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE I HAVE LOVED by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE VISION by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE THREE EPISTLES TO G. LLOYD ON A PASSAGE FROM HOMER'S ILIAD: 1 by JOHN BYROM TO THE COUNTESS OF ANGLESEY UPON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND by THOMAS CAREW |