Slow, Slow, Fresh Fount

 Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
 Yet slower, yet, O faintly, 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 beauties are not ours.
 O, I could still,
 Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
  Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature’s pride is now a withered daffodil.