Classic Poem

O why doth Delia credite so her glasse,
Gazing her beautie deign'd her by the skyes,
And doth not rather looke on him (alas)
Whose state best shewes the force of murthering eyes?
The broken tops of loftie trees declare
The furie of a mercy-wanting storme;
And of what force your wounding graces are,
Upon my selfe you best may finde the forme
Then leave your glasse, and gaze your selfe on mee:
That Mirror shewes what power is in your face:
To view your forme too much may daunger bee;
Narcissus chang'd t'a flower in such a case.
And you are chang'd, but not t'a Hiacint;
I feare your eye hath turn'd your hart to flint.