A Looking-Glasse.

THat flattring Glasse, whose smooth face weares
Your shadow, which a Sunne appeares,
Was once a river of my teares.

About your cold heart, they did make
A circle, where the brinie lake
Congeal'd, into a crystall cake.

Gaze no more on that killing eye,
For feare the native crueltie
Doome you, as it doth all, to dye.

For feare lest the faire object move,
Your froward heart to fall in love,
Then you yourselfe my rivall prove.

Looke rather on my pale cheekes pin'de,
There view your beauties, there you'le finde
A faire face, but a cruell minde.

Be not for ever frozen, coy;
One beame of love, will soone destroy,
And melt that yce, to flouds of joy.