‘Behold, the sweet narcissus’ bloom.’
Ah wretched me! I now begin too late To find out all the long-perlex’d deceit It is my self I love, my self I see; The happy delusion is a part of me. I kindle up the fires by which I burn, And my own beauties from the well return. Whom should I court? How utter my complaint? Enjoyment but produces my restraint, And too much plenty makes me die
