Poem by Edmund Waller

To a Lady Singing a Song of His Composing

Chloris! yourself you so excel,
When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought,
That, like a spirit, with this spell
Of my own teaching, I am taught.

That eagle's fate and mine are one,
Which, on the shaft that made him die,
Espied a feather of his own,
Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Had Echo, with so sweet a grace,
Narcissus' loud complaints returned,
Not for reflection of his face,
But of his voice, the boy had burned.

1. The Self Banished
2. Of My Lady Isabella Playing on the Lute
3. At Penshurst
4. To One Married to an Old Man
5. Upon the Late Storm

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