ECHO'S LAMENT FOR NARCISSUS

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.

Ben Jonson