III
Cupids and loves, and men of gentler mien,
Mourn, for my lady's lovèd one is dead,
Her darling sparrow that to her hath been
Dearer than her own eyes: even as a maid
Loveth her mother, so had he been bred
To know his mistress. He was honeysweet
Nor ever truant from her bosom strayed,
But there would twitter from his soft retreat.
And now—he’s flitting down the Shadow Way,
Ah, never to return! A curse on ye,
Black shades of death, that let no fair thing stay;
How fair a sparrow have ye snatched from me!
Poor birdie–all for thee the teardrops rise,
Till red with weeping are my Love’s bright eyes.
IV
Proud is Phaselus here, my friends, to tell
That once she was the swiftest craft afloat:
No vessel, were she winged with blade or sail
Could ever pass my boat.
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