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 wither'd daffodil. --

MER. Now have you done?

ECHO. Done presently, good Hermes: bide a little;
Suffer my thirsty eye to gaze awhile,
But e'en to taste the place, and I am vanish'd.

MER. Forego thy use and liberty of tongue,
And thou mayst dwell on earth, and sport thee there;

ECHO. Here young Acteon fell, pursued, and torn
By Cynthia's wrath, more eager than his hounds;
And here -- ah me, the place is fatal! -- see
The weeping Niobe, translated hither
From Phrygian mountains; and by Phoebe rear'd,
As the proud trophy of her sharp revenge.

MER. Nay but hear --

ECHO. But here, O here, the fountain of self-love,
In which Latona, and her careless nymphs,
Regardless of my sorrows, bathe themselves
In hourly pleasures.

MER. Stint thy babbling tongue!