Of all the birds that I do know
John Bartlet (fl. 1604-1610)
Of all the byrdes that I doe know,
Phillip my Sparow hath no peare:
For sit she high or lye she lowe,
Be shee farre off, or be shee neare,
There is no byrde so fayre, so fine,
Nor yet so freshe as this of myne.
For when she once hath felt a fitte,
Phillip will crie still, yit, yit, yit.
Come in a morning merrily,
When Phillip hath bene lately fed,
Or in an evening soberlye,
When Phillip lyst to goe to bed:
It is a heavín to heare my Phippe,
Howe she can chirpe with chery lippe.
She never wanders farre abroade,
But is at hand when I doe call:
If I commaund shee layes on loade,
With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.
She chants, she chirpes, she makes such cheere,
That I believe she hath no peere.
Wherefore I sing and ever shall,
To prayse as I have often províd
There is no byrd amongst them all,
So worthy for to be belovíd.
Lets other prayse what byrd they will,
Sweet Phillip shall be my byrd still.