Drop not, mine eyes, nor trickle down so fast,
 For so you could do oft before
   In our sad farewells and sweet meetings past.
 And shall his death now have no more?
 Can niggard sorrow yield no other store
   To show the plenty of affliction's smart?
   Then only thou, poor heart,
      That know'st more reason why,
      Pine, fret, consume, swell, burst and die.