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My picture drown'd in a transparent teare,
When I looke lower I espie,
Hadst thou the wicked skill
By pictures made and mard, to kill?
How many wayes mightst thou performe thy will?
But now I have drunke thy sweet salt teares,
And though thou powre more, I'll depart;
My picture vanished, vanish all feares,
That I can be endamag'd by that art;
Though thou retaine of mee
One picture more, yet that will be,
Being in thine owne heart, from all malice free.
The Baite.
Come live with mee, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and christall brookes:
With silken lines and silver hookes.
There will the river whispering runne
Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the Sunne.
And there th'inamour'd fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.
When thou wilt swimme in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channell hath,
Will amorously to thee swimme,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him,

[CW: If]