| 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 ; | 5 |
| Fall grief in showers ; | |
| Our beauties are not ours ; | |
| O, I could still, | |
| Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, | |
| Drop, drop, drop, drop, | 10 |
| Since nature's pride is, now, a withered daffodil. |