The poem
Sweet Amarillis, by a spring's Soft and soul-melting murmurings, Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew A Robin-red-breast; who at view, Not seeing her at all to stir, Brought leaves and moss to cover her: But while he, perking, there did pry About the arch of either eye, The lid began to let out day,-- At which poor Robin flew away; And seeing her not dead, but all disleaved, He chirpt for joy, to see himself deceived.