Slow, Slow, Fresh Fount

by Ben Jonson

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.


Monadnock Valley Press > Jonson