A Meditation on false lookin-glasses.

MAdam looke off; why peep'st thou? O forbeare,
Twill either make thee proud or else despaire!
Th'one glasse doth flatter thee above desart,
The other makes thee blacker then thou art,
Tell me sweete Lady, now thou hast both there,
Dost not most love the glasse that makes thee faire?
Tis our condition, we can seldome see
A man that tels us truely what we be;
Our friends doe often flatter, and present
Too fine a shape, and all to give content:
Our rough-mouth'd foes do strive to lay a skar
On us, and make us worser then we are,
But yet of both, our lofty nature's such
Indeed, we love our flattering friends too much:
Give me a perfect Glasse, Lord cleare my sight,
That I may see my selfe, and thee aright.