Weep every Venus, and all Cupids wail, And men whose gentler spirits still prevail. Dead is the Sparrow of my girl, the joy, Sparrow, my sweeting's most delicious toy, Whom loved she dearer than her very eyes;For he was honeyed-pet and anywiseKnew her, as even she her mother knew;Ne'er from her bosom's harbourage he flewBut 'round her hopping here, there, everywhere,Piped he to none but her his lady fair.Now must he wander o'er the darkling way