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 . The Nightingale

    AS IT fell upon a day
    In the merry month of May,
    Sitting in a pleasant shade
    With 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 Nightingale 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 pith 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 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.

    Richard Barnfield

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