Upon The Death Of His Sparrow. An Elegy.

Why do not all fresh maids appear     To work love's sampler only here,     Where spring-time smiles throughout the year?     Are not here rosebuds, pinks, all flowers     Nature begets by th' sun and showers,     Met in one hearse-cloth to o'erspread     The body of the under-dead?     Phil, the late dead, the late dead dear,     O! may no eye distil a tear     For you once lost, who weep not here!     Had Lesbia, too-too kind, but known     This sparrow, she had scorn'd her own:     And for this dead which under lies     Wept out her heart, as well as eyes.     But, endless peace, sit here and keep     My Phil the time he has to sleep;     And thousand virgins come and weep     To make these flowery carpets show     Fresh as their blood, and ever grow,     Till passengers shall spend their doom:     Not Virgil's gnat had such a tomb.