To a Lady Singing a Song of His Composing

by Edmund Waller

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 are 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 return'd,
Not for reflection of his face,
  But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.

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