X.

Disdainefull wretch! how hath one bold sinne cost Thee all the beauties of thy once bright eyes! How hath one black eclipse cancell'd, and crost The glories that did gild thee in thy rise! Proud morning of a perverse day! how lost Art thou unto thy selfe, thou too selfe-wise Narcissus! foolish Phaeton! who for all Thy high-aym'd hopes, gaind'st but a flaming fall.