His Heart, into a Bird

THE Tears o'erflow'd fair Cynthia's Eyes,
Her pretty Bird away was flown;
For this great Loss she made her Moan,
And quarrell'd with her Destinyes.

My Heart a secret Joy exprest,
As hoping Good from that Escape,
Took Wings, and in the Fug'tive's Shape,
Got Shelter in her Snowy Brest.

Which prov'd a Fatal Resting-Place,
For she, th'Impostor when she found,
Gave it with Spight a Mortal Wound,
Then pleas'd, she laugh'd, and dry'd her Face.