Oh, why doth Delia credit so her glass, Gazing her beauty deigned her by the skies, And doth not rather look on him (alas) Whose state best shows the force of murd'ring eyes? The broken tops of lofty trees declare The fury of a mercy-wanting storm; And of what force your wounding graces are, Upon myself you best may find the form. Then leave your glass, and gaze yourself on me: That mirror shows what power is in your face; To view your form too much may danger be: Narcissus changed t' a flower in such a case. And you are changed, but not t' a hyacint; I fear your eye hath turned your heart to flint. |