Classic Poem

VVhy doost thou D ELIA credit so thy glasse,
Gazing thy beauty deign'd thee by the skies:
And doest not rather looke on him (alas)
Whose state best shewes the force of murdering eies?
The broken tops of lofty trees declare
The fury of a mercy-wanting storme;
And of what force thy wounding graces are,
Vpon my selfe thou best mayst finde the forme:
Then leaue thy glasse, and gaze thy selfe on me,
That Mirror shewes what power is in thy face:
To view your forme too much, may danger 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 turnd your heart to flint.