To a Lady singing a Song of his Composing.

CHloris your self you so excel
When you vouchsafe to breath my thought,
That like a spirit with this spell
Of my own teaching I am caught.

That Eagles fate, and mine are one,
Which on the shaft that made him die,
Espy'd a feather of his own
Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Had Eccho with so sweet a grace,
Narcissus's loud complaints return'd,
Not for reflexion of his face,
But of his voice the Boy had burn'd.