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 wat'rish stars again Which else portend a lasting rain; Lest the clouds which settle there Prolong my winter all the year: And the example others make In love with sorrow for thy sake. |