To His Mistress

NEAR Troy, Latona's Rival makes her Mone,
Chang'd by the Gods, into a Weeping Stone;
And ravish'd Philomel, (they say 'tis true)
Became a Bird, stretch'd out her Wings, and flew.

But I could wish to be your Looking-Glass,
Thence to admire the Beauties of your Face:
Or Robe de Chambrè, that each Night and Morn,
On those sweet Limbs undrest, I might be worn.

Or else a Crystal Spring for your Delight,
And you to bathe in those cool Streams invite:
Or be some precious Sweets to please the Smell,
That in your Hand, I near your Lips might dwell.

Or String of Pearls, upon your Neck to rest,
Or Pendent Gem, kissing your Snowy Brest;
E'en to your Feet, would I my Wish pursue,
A Shoe I'd be, might I be worn by you.