And yet from all those flow'rs I saw,
No honey, but these tears could draw.
So the all-seeing sun each day,
Distils the world with chemic ray;
But finds the essence only showers,
Which straight in pity back he pours.
Yet happy they whom grief doth bless,
That weep the more, and see the less;
And, to preserve their sight more true,
Bathe still their eyes in their own dew.