YE little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phyllis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is bidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so; See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: --Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble. O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder. Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you; And when you hear her kind reply Return with pleasant warblings. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BALLADE MADE FOR HIS MOTHER THAT SHE MIGHTE PRAYE by FRANCOIS VILLON IKE WALTON'S PRAYER by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY HENDECASYLLABICS by ALFRED TENNYSON CRY WOE, WOE, AND LET THE GOOD PREVAIL, FR. AGAMEMNON by AESCHYLUS THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY; A LEGEND OF DOVER by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM A GARDEN SPOT by PRINGLE BARRET L'INDIFFERENT; WATTEAU; THE LOUVRE by KATHERINE HARRIS BRADLEY |