s darksome vale
He is gone to seek a bourn
Whence they tell us none return.
Plague upon you, dark and narrow
Shades of Orcus, without pity
Swallowing every thing that's pretty--
As ye took the pretty sparrow.
Wo's the day that you lie dead!
Little wretch, 'tis all your doing
That my fair one's eyes are red,
Swoln and red with tearful rueing.

AQUILIUS.--It would be childish to blame the poor bird for the crime of
dying, as if he had died out of spite; when, if the truth could be told,
perhaps the cat killed him. (At this moment, Gratian's favourite cat
rubbed herself against his legs, first her face and head, and then her
back, and looked up to him, as if begging him to plead for her race; and
he did so, and spoke kindly to her, and said, pussey would not kill any
bird though he should trust her in the aviary; and she, as if she knew
what he said, walked off to it, and rubbed her face against the wires,
and returned to us again.) Well, I continued, I don't see why the bird
should be called wretch fer that; and _factum male_ means to express
misfortune, not fault. So let the _malefactum_ be the Curate's, and
treat him accordingly.

GRATIAN.--Come, let us see your bird. Perhaps it may be necessary to
kill two with one stone. But I forget--_the_ bird is dead already.

AQUILIUS.--

DE PASSERE MORTUO LESBIAE.

Ye Cupids, every Queen of Love,
Whate'er hath heart or beauty, shed
Your floods of tears, now hang the head--
My darling's sparrow, pet, and dove,
Is dead: that bird she prized above
Her own sweet eyes, is dead, is dead.

That little bird, that honey bird,
As fair child knows her mother, knew
His own own mistress; and he, too,
From her sweet bosom never stirred,
As prompt at every look and word,
He to that nest of softness flew.

But archly pert and debonnair,
Still further in he fondly nestled,
For her alone piped, chirped, and whistled.
But he has reached that dismal where,
Whose dreary path none ever dare
Retrace, with whom death once hath wrestled.

O Orcus' unrequiting shade,
Devouring all the good, the dear,
Couldst thou not spare one birdling here?
Alas, poor thing! for thou hast made
Her eyes, how loved, with grief o'erweighed,
Grow red, and gush with many a tear.

CURATE.--Is that translating? Look at the first line of the original--

Lugete, o Veneres, Cupidinesque.

You