Dry those fair, those crystal eyes
Which, like growing fountains, rise
To drown their banks : grief's sullen brooks
Would better flow in furrow'd looks;
Thy lovely face was never meant
To be the shore of discontent

Then clear those waterish stars again
Which else portend a lasting rain;
Lest the clouds which settle there
Prolong my winter all the year
And thy example others make
In love with sorrow for thy sake