To D. E.
Narcissus lov'de, and liked so his shape,
He died at lengthe with gazinge there uppon:
Which shewes selfe love, from which there fewe can scape,
A plague too rife: bewitcheth manie a one.
The ritche, the pore, the learned, and the sotte,
Offende therein: and yet they see it not.
This, makes us judge too well of our desertes,
When others smile, our ignorance to see:
And whie? Bicause selfe love doth wounde our hartes,
And makes us thinke, our deedes alone to bee.
Whiche secret sore, lies hidden from our eyes,
And yet the same, an other plainlie sees.
What follie more, what dotage like to this?
And doe we so our owne devise esteeme?
Or can we see so soone an others misse?
And not our owne? Oh blindnes most extreme.
Affect not then, but trye, and proove thy deedes,
For of selfe love, reproche, and shame proceedes.