Next thou call'st back to life that love-sick boy,
To the kind-hearted nymphs less fair than coy,
Who, by reflex beams burnt with vain desire,
Did, Phoenix-like, in his own flames expire:
But should he view his shadow drawn by thee,
He with himself once more in love would be.
Echo (who though she words pursue, her haste
20Can only overtake and stop the last)
Shall her first speech and human veil obtain
To sing thy softer numbers o'er again.