Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears:
    O slower yet, O fainter 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 beauty is not ours;
      O could I still
 Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
     Fall down, fall down.
    Since summer's pride is, now, a withered daffodil.