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.