O why dooth Delia credite so her glasse,
Gazing her beautie deign’d her by the skyes:
And dooth not rather looke on him (alas)
Whose state best shewes the force of murthering eyes.
The broken toppes of loftie trees declare,
The fury of a mercy-wanting storme:
And of what force your wounding graces are,
Vppon my selfe you best may finde the forme.
Then leaue your glasse, and gaze your selfe on mee,
That Mirrour shewes what powre is in your face:
To viewe your forme too much, may daunger bee,
Narcissus chaung’d t’a flowre in such a case.
And you are chaung’d, but not t’a Hiacint;
I feare your eye hath turn’d your hart to flint.