As freezing fountains, when the sun
goes off their streams withhold,
and to their own embraces run
'till all congeal'd with cold;

Or as a hopeless drooping flow'r
for day departed grieves,
possest of nothing but a show'r
of tears upon her leaves

Such am I in your absence left
so like these mourner's show,
that brooks and flow'rs of day bereft
are pictures of my woe.