Philomel

As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan
Save the nightingale1 alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty
That to hear it was great pity:
'Fie, fie, fie!' now would she cry;
'Tereu, Tereu!' by and by;
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs, so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own
Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion1 he is dead
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing
Even so, poor bird, like thee
None alive will pity me