This parrot is no more. It has ceased to be. It's expired and gone to meet its maker. This is a late parrot. It's a stiff. Bereft of life, it rests in peace. If you hadn't nailed it to the perch, it would be pushing up the daisies. It's rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. This is an ex-parrot.
A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled, muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
Lady you bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, And there is such confusion in my powers.