pe ra,
La, soll, fa, fa,
Confitebor tibi, Domine, in[349] toto corde meo.
Alas, I wold ryde and go
A thousand myle of grounde!
If any such might be found,
It were worth an hundreth pound
Of kynge Cresus golde, 190
Or of Attalus[350] the olde,
The ryche prynce of Pargame,
Who so lyst the story to se.
Cadmus, that his syster sought,
And he shold be bought
For golde and fee,
He shuld ouer the see,
To wete if he coulde brynge
Any of the ofsprynge,[351]
Or any of the blode. 200
But whoso vnderstode
Of Medeas arte,
I wolde I had a parte
Of her crafty magyke!
My sparowe than shuld be quycke
With a charme or twayne,
And playe with me agayne.
But all this is in vayne
Thus for to complayne.
I toke my sampler ones, 210
Of purpose, for the nones,
To sowe with stytchis of sylke
My sparow whyte as mylke,
That by representacyon
Of his image and facyon,
To me it myght importe
Some pleasure and comforte
For my solas and sporte:
But whan I was sowing his beke,
Methought, my sparow did speke, 220
And opened[352] his prety byll,
Saynge, Mayd, ye are in wyll
Agayne me for to kyll,
Ye prycke me in the head!
With that my nedle waxed[353] red,
Methought, of Phyllyps blode;
Myne hear ryght vpstode,
And was in suche a fray,
My speche was taken away.
I kest downe that there was, 230
And sayd, Alas, alas,
How commeth this to pas?
My fyngers, dead and colde,
Coude not my sampler holde;
My nedle and threde
I threwe away for drede.
The best now that I maye,
Is for his soule to pray:
A porta inferi,
Good Lorde, haue mercy 240
Vpon my sparowes soule,
Wryten in my bederoule!
Au di vi vo cem,
Japhet, Cam, and Sem,
Ma gni fi cat,
Shewe me the ryght path
To the hylles of Armony,
Wherfore the birdes[354] yet cry
Of your fathers bote,
That was sometyme aflote, 250
And nowe they lye and rote;
Let some poetes wryte
Deucalyons flode it hyght:
But as verely as ye be
The naturall sonnes thre
Of Noe the patryarke,
That made that great arke,
Wherin he had apes and owles,
Beestes, byrdes, and foules,
That if ye can fynde 260
Any of my sparowes kynde,
God sende the soule good rest!
I wolde haue yet[355] a nest
As prety and as prest
As my sparowe was.
But my sparowe dyd pas
All sparowes of the wode
That were syns Noes flode,
Was neuer none so good;
Kynge Phylyp of Macedony 270
Had no such Phylyp as I,
No, no, syr, hardely.
That vengeaunce I aske and crye,
By way of exclamacyon,
On all the hole nacyon
Of cattes wylde and tame;
God send them sorowe and shame!
That cat specyally
That slew so cruelly
My lytell prety sparowe 280
That I brought vp at Carowe.
