Where sitting downe to code the burning heat,
Through the moist pores evap’rating by sweate, 40
Yeelding my pleas’d thought to content (by chance)
I on a suddaine dropt into a trance:
Wherein me thought some God or power divine
Did my cleere knowledge wondrously refine.
For that amongst those sundry varying notes, 45
Which the birds sent from their melodious throats,
Each sylvan sound I truly understood,
Become a perfect linguist of the wood:
Their flight, their song, and every other signe,
By which the world did anciently divine, 50
As the old Tuskans, in that skill profound,
Which first great Car, and wise Tyresias found,
To me bequeath’d their knowledge to descry,
The depths and secrets of their augurie.
One I could heare appointing with his sweeting, 55
A place convenient for their secret meeting:
Others, when winter shortly should decline,
How they would couple at Saint Valentine:
Some other birds that of their loves forsaken,
To the close desarts had themselves betaken, 60
And in the darke groves where they made aboad,
Sang many a sad and mournfull palinod.
And every bird shew’d in his proper kind,
What vertue, nature had to him assign’d.
The prettie Turtle, and the kissing Dove, 65
Their faiths in wedlock, and chaste nuptiall love:
The hens (to women) sanctitie expresse,
Hallowing their egges: the Swallow cleanlinesse,
Sweeting her nest, and purging it of doung
And every houre is picking of her young. 70
The Heme, by soaring shewes tempestuous showres,
The princely Cocke distinguisheth the houres.
The Kite, his traine him guiding in the ayre,
Prescribes the helme, instructing how to stere.
The Crane to labour, fearing some rough flaw, 75
With sand and gravell burthening his craw:
Noted by man, which by the same did finde
To ballast ships for steddinesse in winde.
And by the forme and order in his flight,
To march in warre, and how to watch by night. 80
The first of house that ere did groundsell lay,
Which then was homely, of rude lome and clay,
Leam’d of the Martin: Philomel in spring,
Teaching by art her little one to sing;
By whose cleere voice sweet musike first was found,
Before Amphyon ever knew a sound. 86
Covering with mosse the deads unclosed eye,
The little Red-breast teacheth charitie:
So many there in sundry things excell.
Time scarce could serve their properties to tell. 90
I cannot judge if it the place should bee,
That should present this prettie dreame to mee,
That neere the eaves and shelter of a stacke
(Set to support it) at a beeches backe,
In a stubb’d tree with ivy over-growne, 95
On whom the sunne had scarsly ever shone,
A broad-fac’d creature, hanging of the wing,
Was set to sleepe whilst every bird did sing.
His drowsie head still leaning on his brest,
For all the sweet tunes Philomel exprest: 100
No signe of joy did in his lookes appeare,
Or ever mov’d his melancholy cheere.
Ascallaphus, that brought into my head,
In Ovids changes metamorphised,
Or very like: but him I read aright, 105
Solemne of lookes as he was slow of sight;
And to assure me that it was the same;
The birds about him strangely wondring came.
Fie, quoth the Lennet, tripping on the spray;
Rowze thee, thou sluggish bird, this mirthfull May,
For shame come forth, and leave thy luskie nest, 111
And haunt these forrests bravely as the best.
Take thy delight in yonder goodly tree,
Where the sweet Merle, and warbling Mavis bee.
Next, quoth the Titmouse, which at hand did sit, 115
Shake off this moodie melancholly fit.
See the small brookes as through these groves they travell,
Sporting for joy upon the silver gravell,
Mocke the sweet notes the neighb’ring sylvans sing,
With the smooth cadence of their murmuring. 120
Each bee with honey on her laden thye,
From palme to palme (as carelesly they flye)
Catch the soft wind, and him his course bereaves,
To stay and dally with th’inamored leaves.
This while the Owle, which well himselfe could beare,
That to their short speech lent a listning eare: 126
Begins at length to rowse him in the beech,
And to the rest thus frames his reverend speech:
O all you feath’red quiresters of Nature,
That power which hath distinguish’d every creature,
Gave severall uses unto every one, 131
As severall seeds and things to live upon:
Some as the Larke that takes delight to build,
Farre from resort, amid the vastie field;
The Pellican in desarts farre abroad, 135
Her deare-lov’d issue safely doth unload;
The Sparrow and the Robinet agen,
To live neere to the mansion place of men;
And Nature wisely which hath each thing taught,
This place best fitting my content fore-thought, 140
For I presume not of the stately trees,
Yet where foresight lesse threatning danger sees,
The tempest thrilling from the troubled ayre,
Strikes not the shrub, the place of my repayre.
The fowlers snares in ambush are not lay’d, 145
T’intrap my steps, which oft have you betray’d.
A silent sleepe my gentle fellow birds,
By day, a calme of sweet content affords;
By night I towre the heaven, devoy’d of feare,
Nor dread the Griphon to surprize me there. 150
And into many a secret place I peepe,
And see strange things while you securely sleepe.
Wonder not, birds, although my heavie eyes
By day seeme dimme to see your vanities.
‘Happie’s that sight the secret’st things can spye, 155
‘By seeming purblind to communitie;
‘And blest are they that to their owne content,
‘See that by night which some by day repent.
Did not mine eyes seeme dimme to others sight,
Without suspect they could not see so right, 160
‘O silly creatures, happie is the state,
‘That weighes not pittie, nor respecteth hate:
‘Better’s that place, though homely and obscure,
Where we repose in safetie and secure,
Then where great birds with lordly tallons seize 165
Not what they ought, but what their fancies please:
And by their power prevailing in this sort,
To rob the poore, account it but a sport:
Therefore of two, I chose the lesser evill,
‘Better sit still, then rise to meet the devill. 170
Thus the poore Owle, unhappily could preach,
Some that came neere in compasse of his reach,
Taking this item, with a generall eare
(A guiltie conscience feeles continuall feare)
Soone to their sorrow secretly doe find, 175
‘Some that had wink’d, not altogether blind.
And finding now which they before had heard,
‘Wisdome not all, in every ga
rish bird,
Shrewdly suspect, that breviting by night,
Under pretence that he was ill of sight, 180
Slily had seene which secretly not kept,
Simply they wak’d; he subtilly had slept.
The envious Crow, that is so full of spight,
The hatefull Buzzard, and the ravenous Kite,
The greedie Raven, that for death doth call, 185
Spoyling poore lambes as from their dams they fall,
That picketh out the dying creatures eye;
The theevish Daw, and the dissembling Pye,
That onely live upon the poorers spoyle,
That feed on dung-hils of the lothsome foyle: 190
The Wood-pecker, whose hardned beake hath broke,
And pierc’d the heart of many a sollid oke:
That where the kingly Eagle wont to prey,
In the calme shade in heat of summers day:
Of thousands of faire trees there stands not one 195
For him to pearch or set his foot upon.
And now they see that safely had him here,
T’eschew th’effect of every future feare:
Upon the sudden all these murdrous fowle,
Fasten together on the harmelesse Owle, 200
The cruell Kite, because his clawes were keene,
Upon his broad-face wreakes his angry teene.
His weasant next, the ravenous Raven plyes,
The Pye and Buzzard tugging at his eyes.
The crow is digging at his brest amayne; 205
The sharp-nebd Hecco stabbing at his braine,
That had the Falcon not by chance beene neere,
That lov’d the Owle, and held him onely deere,
Come to his rescue at the present tyde,
The honest Owle undoubtedly had dyde. 210
And whilst the gentle fowle doe yet pursue
The ryot done by this rebellious crue,
The lesser birds that keepe the lower spring,
There-at much grieve with wofull murmuring,
Yet wanting power to remedie his wrongs, 215
Who tooke their lives, restrained not their tongues:
The Larke, the Lennet, and the gentler sort,
Those sweet musicians, with whose shrill report,
The senselesse woods, and the obdurate rocke,
Have oft beene moov’d: the warbling Throstle cocke,
The Ousell, and the Nightingale among 221
That charmes the night calme with her powerfull song,
In Phoebus lawrell that doe take delight,
Whom Joves fierce thunder hath no power to smite.
Justice, say they, ah, whether art thou fled? 225
Or this vile world hast thou abandoned?
O, why, faire vertue, wer’t thou made in vaine?
Freedome is lost, and libertie is slaine:
Whilst some whose power restrayned not their rage,
Loudly exclaime upon the envious age, 230
That rockes for pittie did resume them eares,
The earth so wet with plentie of their teares.
But thus it hapt in heat of all these things,
‘As kings rule realms, God rules the hearts of kings.
The princely Eagle, leaving his abode, 235
Was from his court stolne secretly abroad:
And from the covert, closely where he stood,
To find how things were censur’d in the wood;
Farre in the thickets might a chattring heare,
To which soone lending an officious eare, 240
With a still flight his easie course doth make
Towards where the sound he perfectly doth take.
At every stroke (with his imperiall wings)
The gentle ayre unto his feathers clings;
And through his soft and callow downe doth flow,
As loth so soone his presence to forgoe, 246
And being at last arrived at the place,
He found the Owle in miserable case,
(For whom much sorrow every-where was heard)
Sadly bemoan’d of many a helplesse bird. 250
But when this princely joviall fowle they saw,
As now deliv’red from their former awe:
Each little creature lifted up a wing,
With Ave Caesar, to their soveraigne King.
Who seeing the Owle, thus miserably forlorne, 255
Spoyl’d of his feathers, mangled, scratcht and tome:
Will’d him his name and qualitie to shew,
How and wherefore he suffred all this woe:
Which the Owle hearing, taking heart thereby,
Though somewhat daunted with his piercing eye, 260
(With a deep sigh) My soveraigne leige, quoth he,
Though now thus poore and wretched as you see,
Athens sometime the Muses nurcerie,
The source of science and philosophic,
Allow’d me freedome in her learned bowers, 265
Where I was set in the Cecropian towers.
Armed Bellona (goddesse of the field)
Honor’d my portraict in her war-like shield.
And for my studie (of all other fowle)
The wise Minerva challenged the Owle: 270
For which, those grave and still-autentique sages,
Which sought for knowledge in those golden ages,
Of whom we hold the science that we have,
For wisedome, me their hieroglifique gave.
The fruitfull Ceres to great Saturne borne, 275
That first with sickle cropt the rip’ned come,
Shee bore the swarty Acheron, whose birth,
Scarcely then perfect, lothing of the earth,
And flying all communitie with men,
Thrust his blacke head into the Stygian fen; 280
Where the nymph Orphne in th’infernall shade,
As in his streame she carelesly did wade:
The floud imbracing craftily beguild;
By whom soone after shee conceav’d with child,
Of her deare sonne Ascallaphus, whose youth 285
So cherish’d justice, and respected truth;
As to the gods he faithfully did tell,
The tasted fruit by Proserpine in hell:
Which an offence imagined so foule,
Ceres trans-form’d into the harmelesse Owle.
To our disgrace, though it be urg’d by some,
Our harmelesse kind to Creet doth never come;
The Cretians are still lyers, nor come we thether,
For truth and falshood cannot live together.
But those that spume at our contented state, 295
With viperous envie and degenerate hate;
Strive to produce us from that Lesbian bed,
Where with blind lust the fleshly letcher led,
On his owne child, unnaturally did prey,
(For that foule fact) transform’d Nyctimene, 300
But seldome seene unto the publique eye,
The shreeking Litch-Owle that doth never cry,
But boding death, and quicke her selfe interres
In darkesome graves and hollow sepulchers.
Thus much, my soveraigne, whence my fathers came.
Now for the cause of this my present shame, 306
‘Few words may serve a mischiefe to unfold,
‘For, in short speech long sorrow may be told.
But for my freedome that I us’d of late,
To lanch th’infection of a poysoned state, 310
Wherein my free and uncorrupted tongue,
Lightly gave taste of their injurious wrong.
The Kyte, the Crow, and all the birds of prey,
That thy liege people havocke night and day;
Rushing upon me, with most foule despight, 315
Thus have they drest me in this pityous plight.
The Eagle now, a serious eare that lent
To the religious and devout intent
Of the good Owle, whom too injurious fate
Had thus rewarded, doth commiserate 320
The poore distressed bird, hoping to heare
What all the rest through negligence or feare,
Smothred in silence, and had buried still,
Covering the sore of many a festred ill:
Not onely grants him libertie of speech, 325
But further dayning kindly to beseech
The vertuous bird no longer to refraine:
Who thus emboldned by his soveraigne,
At length his silence resolutely brake,
And thus the Eagles majestie be-spake. 330
Mightie, said he, though my plaine homely words
Have not that grace that elegance affords;
Truth of it selfe of sufficient worth,
Nor needs it glosse of arte to set it forth.
Those hoary plumes like mosse upon that oake, 335
By seeing much, yet suffring more I tooke.
Long have I seene the worlds unconstant change,
Joy mooves not me, affliction is not strange.
I care not for contempt, I seeke not fame,
Knowledge I love, and glorie in the same. 340
Th’ambitious judgement-seate I never sought,
Where God is sold for coyne, the poore for nought.
I am a helplesse bird, a harmelesse wretch,
Wanting the power that needfull is to teach.
Yet care of your great good and generall weale, 345
Unlocks my tongue, and with a fervent zeale
Breaks through my lips which otherwise were pent
To that severe grave Samnites document.
I know, before my harmelesse tale be told,
The gripple Vulture argues me too bold. 350
The Cormorant (whom spoile cannot suffice)
Sticks not to charge and slander me with lyes,
The Parrot taxe me to be vainely proud,
And all cry shame, the Owle should be allow’d.
Which with this axiome doth them all confute, 355
‘When Kings bid speake, what subject can be mute?
The latest winter that fore-went our prime,
O mightie prince, upon a certayne time
I got into thy palace on a night,
There to revive my melancholy spright, 360
And there (for darkenesse) wayting all alone,
To view (by night) what lords by day looke on,
Where I beheld so many candles light,
As they had mock’d the tapers of the night.
Where, for it grew upon the time of rest, 365
And many great sinceritie profest,
Expecting prayer should presently proceed,
To aske forgivenesse for the dayes misdeed,
There in soft downe the liquorous Sparrow sat,
Pamper’d with meats, full spermatike and fat. 370
His drugs, his drinks, and sirops doth apply,
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