O why doth Delia credit so her glass,
Gazing her beauty deign'd 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 my self you best may find the form.
Then leave your glass, and gaze your self on me,
That Mirror shows what power is in your face;
To view your form too much may danger be:
Narcissus chang'd t'a flower in such a case.
And you are chang'd, but not t'a Hyacint;
I fear your eye hath turn'd your heart to flint.