Thus did the nymphs in vain caress the boy,
  He still was lovely, but he still was coy;
  When one fair virgin of the slighted train
  Thus prayed the gods, provoked by his disdain,
  ‘Oh, may he love like me, and love like me in vain!’
  Rhamnusia pitied the neglected fair,
  And with just vengeance answered to her prayer. 
     There stands a fountain in a darksome wood,
  Nor stained with falling leaves nor rising mud;
  Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests,
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  Unsullied by the touch of men or beasts: 
  High bowers of shady trees above it grow,
  And rising grass and cheerful greens below. 
  Pleased with the form and coolness of the place,
  And over-heated by the morning chase,
  Narcissus on the grassy verdure lies: 
  But whilst within the crystal fount he tries
  To quench his heat, he feels new heats arise. 
  For as his own bright image he surveyed,
  He fell in love with the fantastic shade;
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  And o’er the fair resemblance hung unmoved,
  Nor knew, fond youth! it was himself he loved. 
  The well-turned neck and shoulders he descries,
  The spacious forehead, and the sparkling eyes;
  The hands that Bacchus might not scorn to show,
  And hair that round Apollo’s head might flow,
  With all the purple youthfulness of face,
  That gently blushes in the watery glass. 
  By his own flames consumed the lover lies,
  And gives himself the wound by which he dies.
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  To the cold water oft he joins his lips,
  Oft catching at the beauteous shade he dips
  His arms, as often from himself he slips. 
  Nor knows he who it is his arms pursue
  With eager clasps, but loves he knows not who. 
  What could, fond youth, this helpless passion move? 
  What kindle in thee this unpitied love? 
  Thy own warm blush within the water glows,
  With thee the coloured shadow comes and goes,
  Its empty being on thyself relies;
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  Step thou aside, and the frail charmer dies. 
     Still o’er the fountain’s watery gleam he stood,
  Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food;
  Still viewed his face, and languished as he viewed. 
  At length he raised his head, and thus began
  To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain. 
  ‘You trees,’ says he, ’and thou surrounding grove,
  Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love,
  Tell me, if e’er within your shades did lie
  A youth so tortured, so perplexed as I?
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  I who before me see the charming fair,
  Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not there: 
  In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost;
  And yet no bulwarked town, nor distant coast,
  Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen,
  No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between. 
  A shallow water hinders my embrace;
  And yet the lovely mimic wears a face
  That kindly smiles, and when I bend to