Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE DEPLORES LAURA'S INFATUATION WITH HER MIRROR

That glass, my rival, where you dote upon
Those eyes which Love and Heaven do both adore,
With beauties, not its own, enamours more
Your gaze than mortal sweetness ever won.
And me, by that antagonist goaded on,
From your breast, like a beggar from your door,
You have to wretched exile sent as poor,
Too poor to share what is for you alone.
But were I fixed thereto with nails of steel,
A mirror should not make you, to my spite,
Cruel and proud your sole self to delight.
If for Narcissus you some pity feel,
Surely his course and yours to one end pass —
Though for so rare a flower unfit this grass.