Whither flies my pretty Dove?
Whither nimble Scout of Love?
From whose wings perfumes distill,
And the air with sweetness fill.
Is't to thee which way I'me bent?
By Anacreon I am sent
To Rodantha , she who all
Hearts commands; loves Generall.
I to Venus did belong,
But she sold me for a song
To her Poet, his I am,
And from him this Letter came,
For which he hath promis'd me
That ere long hee'l set me free:
But though freedom I should gain,
I with him would still remain;
For what profit were the change,
Fields from tree to tree to range,
And on Hips and Haws to feed,
When I may at home pick bread
From his hand, and freely sup
Purest wine from his own cup?
Hovering then with wings displaid
I my Master overshade:
And if night invite to rest,
In his Harp I make my Nest.
Now thou do'st my errand know,
Friend, without more questions go:
For thy curiosity
Makes me to outchat a Py.