To shed their silver drops as he goes by.
Not all this day here, nor in coming hither,
Heard I the sweet birds tune their songs together,
Except one nightingale in yonder dell
Sigh'd a sad elegy for Philocel.
Near whom a wood-dove kept no small ado,
To bid me, in her language, 'Do so too'—
The wether's bell, that leads our flock around,
Yields, as methinks, this day a deader sound.
The little sparrows which in hedges creep,