The Nightingale
AS it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Everything did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone.She, poor bird, as all forlorn,Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the dolefull’st dittyThat to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;Teru, teru, by and by:That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade 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 Pandion, he is dead,All thy friends are lapped in lead:All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like theeNone alive will pity me.
BEN JONSON 1574–1637