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.