From Catullus: Lugete, O Veneres Cupidinesque

Weep and wail, ye Cupids all,
That are pretty and but small ;
Weep, ye pretty winged brothers,
Weep, ye pretty goddess mothers ;
Every soul on earth that's pretty,
Weep and wail for very pity.
He is dead, the pretty sparrow.
Darling of my " winsome marrow,"
Dearer than her own eyes to her ;
For so well the creature knew her,
She did not know her mother better ;
Not a moment would he quit her,
Hopping hither, flitting thither.
Ever blest while he was with her ;
Piping shrill and twittering clearly,
To her alone whom he loved dearly.
Now the dark way he is wending.
Whence they say is no ascending.
Ill luck be with thee, gloomy hollow.
That every pretty thing dost swallow,

To steal away my pretty sparrow !
Alas ! poor bird — oh, deed of sorrow !
My sweet one's eyes, with tears so salt,
Are red and swollen ; 'tis all thy fault.