Richard Barnfield (1574–1627)

AS it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring,

Every thing did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone.

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,

Leaned her breast against a thorn,

And there sung the dolefulest ditty,

That to hear it was great pity.

Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;

Tereu, tereu, by and by:

That to hear her so complain

Scarce I could from tears refrain;

For her griefs so lively shown

Made me think upon mine own.

Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,

None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,

Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;

King Pandiva, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp’d in lead:

All thy fellow-birds do sing

Careless of thy sorrowing;

Even so, poor bird, like thee,

None alive will pity me.