CHLORIS, yourself you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That like a spirit, with this spell Of my own teaching I am caught. That eagle's fate and mine is one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high. Had Echo, with so sweet a grace, Narcissus' loud complaints returned; Not for reflection of his face, But of his voice, the boy had mourned. |