Echo’S Lament Fob Narcissus

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.

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH’S CHAPEL

WEEP with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed Death’s self is sorry. It was a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen When fates turned cruel, Yet three filled zodiacs had he been The stage’s jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly, Ah, sooth, the Parcae thought him one— He played so truly. So by error to his fate They all consented, But viewing him since, alas, too late They have repented; And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him; But being much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him.

JOHN FLETCHER 1579–1625