Dry those fair, those crystal eyes,
Which, like growing fountains, rise,
To drown their banks : grief's sullen brooks
Would better flow in furrow'd looks ;
Thy lovely face was never meant
To be the shore of discontent.

Then clear those waterish stars again,
Which else portend a lasting rain ;
Lest the clouds which settle there,
Prolong my winter all the year,
And thy example others make
In love with sorrow for thy sake.