Hast thou descended deep into the breast,
And seen their source? If not, descend with me, 520
And trace these briny rivulets to their springs.
Our funeral tears from different causes rise,
As if from separate cisterns in the soul,
Of various kinds, they flow. From tender hearts,
By soft contagion call’d, some burst at once,
And stream obsequious to the leading eye.
Some ask more time, by curious art distill’d. 527
Some hearts, in secret hard, unapt to melt,