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.
