Epistle XVII. To his Friend Mr. W. H. upon the death of his Hawk

What will you suffer thus your Hawk to dye?
And shan't her name live in an Elegy?
It shall not be, nor shall the people think
We've so few Poets, or so little drink:
And if there be no sober brain to do it,
I'll wet my Muse, and set my self unto it.
I have no Gods, nor Muse to call upon,
Sir John's strong barrel is my Helicon:
From whence uncurbed streams of tears shall flow,
And verse shall run, when I my self can't go.

Poor bird, I pitty this thy strange disaster,
That thou should'st thus be murther'd by thy master.
Was it with Salt? I'm sure he was not fresh,
Or wa'st thy trusting to an arm of flesh?
Or 'cause 'twas darksome, did his eye-sight fail,
Meeting a Post, he took it for a Rayle.
And yet I wonder how he mis'd his sight;
For though the night was dark, his head was light:
And though he bore thee with a mighty hand,
Thou needs must fall, when he himself can't stand.
'Tis but our common lot, for we do all
Sometimes for want of understanding fall:
But thou art serv'd aright, for when th' hadst flown,
What e're thou took'st, thou took'st to be thy own.
And 'tis but Justice, that each plundring knave,
That such a life doth lead, such death should have.
Rejoyce you Partridge, and be glad ye Rayles:
For the Hawks tallons, are as short's your tayles.
If all the Kingdoms bloudy foes, as she,
Would break their necks, how joyful should we be.
Well, at her burial, thus much I will tell,
In spite of schism, her bells shall ring a knell.

In 1643.