COME, my Corinna, let us try, Which loves you best, of You, and I, I know you oft have in your glass Seen the faint shadow of your face; And, consequently, then became A wond'ring Lover, as I am; Though not so great a one, for what You saw was but a glimpse of that, So sweet, so charming majesty, Which I in its full lustre see. But if you then had gaz'd upon Yourself, as your reflection, And seen those eyes for which I die, Perhaps you'd been as sick as I. Thus, Sweetest, then it is confest, That of us Lovers, I love best; You'll say 'tis reason, that my share Be great as my affections are, When you insensibly are grown More mine, by conquest, than your own. But, if this argument I name Seem light to such a glorious claim; Yet, since you love yourself, this do, Love me, at least, for loving you; So my despair you may destroy, And you your loved self enjoy; Acting those things, can ne'er be done, Whilst you remain your self alone: So for my sighs you make amends, So you have yours, and I my ends. |