Slow, slow, fresh fount

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 (1572–1637)

from Cynthia’s Revels (1601)


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