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SWeet Bird, that sing'st away the earely Houres,
Of Winters past, or comming void of Care,
Well pleased with Delights which present are,
Faire Seasons, budding Spraies, sweet-smelling Flow'rs:
To Rocks, to Springs, to Rills, from leavy Bow'rs
Thou thy Creators Goodnesse dost declare,
And what deare Gifts on thee he did not spare,
A staine to humane sense in Sin that low'rs.
What Soule can be so sick, which by thy Songs
(Attir'd in sweetnesse) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget Earths turmoiles, spights, and Wrongs,
And lift a reverend Eye and Thought to Heaven?
Sweet Artlesse Songster, thou my Mind dost raise
To Ayres of Spheares, yes, and to Angels Layes.