Dry those faire, those Christall Eyes
Which like growing fountaines rise
To drowne their bankes. Greife's sullen Brooks
Would better flow in furrow'd lookes.
Thy lovely face was never meant
To be the Shoare of discontent.
Then cleare those wat'rish Starrs againe
Which else portend a lasting raine;
Least the cloudes which settle there
Prolong my Winter all the Yeare:
And the Example others make
In love with Sorrow for thy sake.