Who (now transform’d into this drooping flower)
Hangs the repentant head back from the stream;
As if it wish’d—would I had never look’d
In such a flattering mirror! O, Narcissus!
Thou that wast once (and yet art) my Narcissus,
Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts,
She would have dropped away herself in tears
Till she had all turn’d waste, that in her
(As in a true glass) thou might’st have gazed,
And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection.