



BY BEN JONSON. 
Aris&, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise; 
Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine, 
Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame, 
Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name, 
ECHO. 
His name revives, and lifts me up from earth ;— 
See, see, the mourning fount, whose springs 
weep yet 
Th’ untimely fate of that too beauteous boy, 
That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature, 
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 vhy thoughts, 
She would have dropt away Aerself in tears, 
Tull she had all turn’d waste, that in her 
(As ina true glass) thou mightst have gazed, 
And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection, 
But self-love never yet could look on truth, 
But with ble beams; slick flattery and she 
Are twin-born sisters, and do mix their eyes, 
Ke if won cever ne other di 
As if you sever one, the other dies. 


V >. 
ete 
Lear 





















