If doves and hawks become among,
In every nest and field along,
In groves and bushes - green delight
Of wing to wing, they all unite.

Although their beauty soon will fade,
In every resting by the shade,
Which rapid breaths will turn to one,
Doth dry their lungs until they're done. 

If blessings were to gift me wings,
How I'd use them above all things;
If breaths of heaven strike me thus,
I'd jubilate and not discuss. 

Although such gifts are goodly will,
They come parchment, name, and quill;
Alas the corrupt err men owe
To worldly prisons that they show.

If nests be made in high'st of wood,
My past be gloried, so it should;
Unfledged and tender, yet to roam
In highest places called my home.

Although highness receives honour,
Being gifted by my spawner,
It descendeth toward the stream,
A castigator to my dream.