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.
Ben JonsonHere are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Still reeling from the buzzing of German-designed appliances, and desperately trying to find a stall that served coffee and muffins instead of edible knickers and herbal elixirs, I watched bemused at the Sexpo as the craggy Pricasso dipped his dangly bit into paint and dabbed at a piece of paper on the easel.