Xxxiv

Why dost thou, Delia, credit so thy glass, Gazing thy beauty deigned thee by the skies, And dost not rather look on him, alas! Whose state best shows the force of murdering eyes? The broken tops of lofty trees declare The fury of a mercy-wanting storm; And of what force thy wounding graces are Upon myself, you best may find the form. Then leave thy glass, and gaze thyself on me; That mirror shows what power is in thy 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 hyacinth; I fear your eye hath turned your heart to flint.