Текст оригинала на английском языке
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.
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