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