To His Maid, Prew

These summer-birds did with thy master stayThe times of warmth, but then they flew away,Leaving their poet, being now grown old,Expos'd to all the coming winter's cold.But thou, kind Prew, did'st with my fates abideAs well the winter's as the summer's tide;For which thy love, live with thy master here,Not one, but all the seasons of the year.