Weak as we are, and almost breathless swim In this deep water. But touch the ground For us no longer time than a dove’s Motion when the head’s plucked off, O, my petition was Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied Melts into drops; so sorrow, wanting form, Is pressed with deeper matter. O woe, You cannot read it there; there through my tears, Like wrinkled pebbles in a glass stream. Pray you, say nothing, pray you, Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in it. Let the event, that never-erring arbitrator, tell us What we know…