Mirror, you always hang there on your nail
To receive her image in your brightness:
And here my heart waits for her to no avail,
For she never deigns to give it notice.
You (O happy one), blessed with her visits,
Share all her most secret, & worthy wares,
Whereas, blind to my heart, she nonetheless dares
Hear its tears, its complaints, & all the rest.
Any lady may be contained in you,
But into her, nobody else may step.
— Maurice Sceve/Translated by Richard Sieburth