Upon the Death of His Sparrow. An Elegy

Why do not all fresh maids appearTo work love's sampler only here,Where spring-time smiles throughout the year?Are not here rosebuds, pinks, all flowersNature begets by th' sun and showers,Met in one hearse-cloth to o'erspreadThe body of the under-dead?

Phil, the late dead, the late dead dear,O! may no eye distil a tearFor you once lost, who weep not here!Had Lesbia, too-too kind, but knownThis sparrow, she had scorn'd her own:And for this dead which under liesWept out her heart, as well as eyes.But, endless peace, sit here and keepMy Phil the time he has to sleep;And thousand virgins come and weepTo make these flowery carpets showFresh as their blood, and ever grow,Till passengers shall spend their doom:Not Virgil's gnat had such a tomb.