SONG.
FROM “CYNTHIA’S REVELS.”
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 summer’s pride is now a withered daffodil.
Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.