Ben Jonson                         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. 1600