TO THE NARCISSUS.
Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise;
Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine,
Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame,
Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.
ECHO.
His name revives, and lifts me up from earth;
See, see the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet
Th’ untimely fate of that too beauteous boy,
That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature,