My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Which dearer than her eyes she lov'd:
For he was gentle and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd.
And softly fluttering here, and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirrup'd oft, and free from care,
Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.