TO A LADY SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING.
Reading edition
1 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 caught.
2 That eagle's fate[1] 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.
3 Had Echo, with so sweet a grace, Narcissus' loud complaints return'd, Not for reflection of his face, But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.
[1] 'Eagle's fate': Byron copies this thought in his verses on Kirke White