ODE XXIII

1

Poore bird, I doe not envie thee;
Pleas'd, in the gentle Melodie
Of thy owne Song.
Let crabbed winter Silence all
The winged Quire; he never shall
Chaine up thy Tongue.
Poore Innocent,
When I would please my selfe, I looke on thee;
And guess 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;
Upon 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 away, the Times uncertaintie,
Safe in my Selfe.

4

Poore Redbrest, caroll out thy Laye
And teach us mortalls what to saye.
Here cease, the Quire
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.