The Narcissus

As pendent o'er the limpid stream
I bow'd my snowy pride,
And languish'd in a fruitless flame,
For what the Fates denied;
The fair Pastora chanc'd to pass,
With such an angel air,
I saw her in the watery glass,
And lov'd the rival fair.

Ye fates, no longer let me pine,
Aself-admiring sweet,
Permit me, by your grace divine,
To kiss the fair-one's feet:
That if by chance the gentle maid
My fragrance should admire,
I may—upon her bosom laid,
In sister sweets expire.