ODE XXIII.
[Poore bird! I doe not envie thee]
1
Poore bird! I doe not envie thee;
Pleas'd in the gentle Melodie
Of thy owne Song.
Let crabbéd winter Silence all
The wingéd Qvire; he never shall
Chaine vp thy Tongve:
Poore Innocent!
When I would please my selfe, I looke on thee;
And gvess some sparkes of that Felicitie,
That Selfe-Content.
2
When the bleake Face of winter Spreads
The Earth, and violates the Meads
Of all their Pride;
When Saples Trees and Flowers are fled,
Backe to their Causes, and lye dead
To all beside;
I see thee Sett,
Bidding defiance to the bitter Ayre,
Vpon a wither'd Spray; by cold made bare,
And drooping yet.
3
There, full in notes, to ravish all
My Earth, I wonder what to call
My dullnes; when
I heare thee, prettye Creature, bring
Thy better odes of Praise, and Sing,
To pussle men:
Poore pious Elfe!
I am instructed by thy harmonie,
To sing the Time's vncertaintie,
Safe in my Selfe.
4
Poore Redbrest, caroll out thy Laye,
And teach vs mortalls what to saye.
Here cease the Qvire
Of ayerie Choristers; noe more
Mingle your notes; but catch a Store
From her Sweet Lire;
You are but weake,
Meere summer Chanters; you have neither wing
Nor voice, in winter. Prettie Redbrest, Sing,
What I would speake.
