Sonnet, 5.

WHy doth my Mistres credit so hir glasse,
Gasing hir beautie dein'd hir by the skies,
And doth not rather looke on him (alas)
Whose state best shewes the force of murthering eies.

The broken tops of loftie trees declare
The furie of a mercie-wanting storme;
And of what force your wounding graces are,
Vpon my selfe you best may finde the forme.

Then leaue your glasse, and gaze your selfe on mee,
That myrror showes the power of your face;
To admire your forme too much may danger bee,
Narcissus changd to flower in such a case:
I feare your change not flower nor Hiacynth,
Medusas eye may turne your heart to flint.