Slow, Slow, Fresh Fount

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
    Yet slower, yet, O faintly gentle springs!
List to the heavy part the music bears,
    Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.
          Droop herbs and flowers ;
          Fall grief in showers;
          Our beauties are not ours.
                 O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
          Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature's pride is, now, a withered daffodil.