Abraham Cowley (1618–1667)

(Anacreontiques)

FOOLISH prater, what dost 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 seasons’ noise:

Free from th’ill thou’st done to me:

Who disturbs, or seeks out thee?

Hadst 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 equal’d be

By all that waking eyes may see.

Thou this damage to repair,

Nothing half so sweet or fair,

Nothing half so good can’st bring,

Though men say, thou bring’st the Spring.