o christall teares, like to the morning showers,
& sweetly weepe into thy Ladies brest,
and as the deawes reuiue the dropping flowers,
so let your drops of pittie be adrest:

To quicken vp the thoughts of my desert,
which sleeps to sound whilst I from her depart.

ast haplesse sighs and let your burning breath
Dissolue the Ice of her indurate harte,
Whose frosen rigor like forgetfull death
Feels neuer any touch of my desarte:

Yet sighs and teares to her I sacryfise,
Both from a spotles hart and pacient eyes.

John Dowland, 1597