John Lyly (1555?–1606)

WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?

O ’tis the ravish’d nightingale.

Jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,

And still her woes at midnight rise.

Brave prick-song! Who is’t now we hear?

None but the lark so shrill and clear;

Now at heaven’s gate she claps her wings,

The morn not waking till she sings.

Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat

Poor robin redbreast tunes his note;

Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing

Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!