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| Emilia. | This garden bath a world of pleasures in't. What flower is this? |
| Servant. | 'Tis called Narcissus, Madam. |
| Emilia. | That was a fair boy certain, but a fool To love himself; were there not maids enough? Or were they all hard-hearted? |
| Servant. | They could not be, to one so fair. |
| Emilia. | Thou would'st not? |
| Servant. | I think I should not, Madam. |
| Emilia. | That is a good wench! Canst thou not work such flowers in silk, wench? I'll have a gown full of 'em; and of these, This a pretty colour: will't not do Rarely upon a skirt, wench? |
| Servant. | Dainty, Madam. |
The most deeply and entirely poetical allusion to the fate of Narcissus is the following splendid passage by Ben Jonson. The love of Echo, and her half reproachful grief, give a real and touching pathos to what in other hands is a mere fable.
| Echo. | His name revives and lifts me up from earth— See, see, the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet Th' untimely fate of that too beauteous boy, That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature, Who, now transformed into this drooping flower, Hangs the repentant head back from the stream; As if it wished—"would I had never looked Into such a flattering mirror!" O Narcissus! Thou that wast once (and yet art) my Narcissus, Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts, She would have dropped away herself in tears, Till she had all turned water, that in her (As in a truer glass) thou might'st have gazed, And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection. But self-love never yet could look on truth But with bleared beams; slick Flattery and she |
