ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-1667)

THE SWALLOW

Foolish Prater, what do'st thou

So early at my window do

With thy tuneless serenade?

Well 't had been had Tereus made

Thee as dumb as Philomel:

There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscovered nest

Thou dost all the winter rest,

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,

Free from the stormy season's noise: 10
Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me;
Who disturbs, or seeks out thee?

Had'st thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou'st ta'en from me away;
Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away

A dream out of my arms to-day,
A dream that ne'er must equaled be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou this damage to repair,

Nothing half so sweet or fair,

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Nothing half so good can'st bring, Though men say, Thou bring'st the spring?'

THE WISH