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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? |
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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. |
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The Baite. |
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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. |
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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. |
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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,
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[CW: If] |