Elegia VI.[264]
In mortem psittaci.
The parrot, from East India to me sent,[265]
Is dead; all fowls her exequies frequent!
Go godly[266] birds, striking your breasts, bewail,
And with rough claws your tender cheeks assail.
For woful hairs let piece-torn plumes abound,
For long shrild[267] trumpets let your notes resound.
Why Philomel dost Tereus' lewdness mourn?
All wasting years have that complaint now[268] worn.