See where she sits, and in what comely wise
Drops tears more fair than others' eyes!
Ah, charming maid, let not ill Fortune see
Th' attire thy sorrow wears,
Nor know the beauty of thy tears;
For she'll still come to dress herself in thee.
 
As stars reflect on waters, so I spy
In ev'ry drop (methinks) her eye.
The baby, which lives there, and always plays
In that illustrious sphere,
Like a narcissus does appear,
Whilst in his flood the lovely boy did gaze. 

Ne'er yet did I behold so glorious weather,
As this sunshine and rain together;
Pray heav'n her forehead, that pure hill of snow
(For some such fountain we must find
To waters of so fair a kind),
Melt not, to feed that beauteous stream below. 

Ah! mighty Love, that it were inward heat
Which made this precious limbeck1 sweat!
But what, alas, ah, what does it avail
That she weeps tears so wond'rous cold
As scarce the ass's hoof can hold,
So cold, that I admire they fall not hail.