by John Donne

    Come live with mee， and bee my love，

    And wee 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 the'inamor'd fish will stay，

    Begging themselves they may betray.

    When thou wilt¹ swimme in that live bath，

    Each fish， which every channell hath，

    Will amorously² to thee swimme，

    Gladder to catch thee， than thou him.

    If thou， to be so seene， beest loath³，

    By Sunne， or Moone， thou darknest both，

    And if my selfe have leave to see，

    I need not their light， having thee.

    Let others freeze with angling reeds，

    And cut their legges， with shells and weeds，

    Or treacherously⁴ poore fish beset⁵，

    With strangling snare⁶， or windowie net：

    Let coarse bold hands， from slimy nest

    The bedded fish in banks out-wrest，

    Or curious traitors⁷， sleavesilke flies

    Bewitch poore fishes wandring eyes.

    For thee， thou needst no such deceit，

    For thou thy selfe art thine owne bait；

    That fish， that is not catch'd thereby⁸，

    Alas⁹， is wiser farre than I.