THE BAIT.

JOHN DONNE.

Born 1574-Died 1631.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove,
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.

There will the river whisp'ring run,
Warm'd by thy eyes more than the sun;
And there th' innamour'd* fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Most amorously to thee will swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be'st loath,
By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both;
And if mine eyes have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset

With strangling snares, or windowy net;

* Walton, who was a good judge of fish, reads " enamell'd."

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest,
The bedded fish in banks outwrest;
Let curious traitors sleave silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes;

For thee thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait;
That fish that is not catch'd thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than 1.

[From Donne's Works, 1635: it is in imitation of Marlowe's Shepherd's song. Isaak Walton, in his Angler, says, "I will speak yon a copy of verses that were made by Dr. Donne, and made to shew the world that he could make soft and smooth verses when he thought smoothness worth his labour; and I love them better, because they allude to rivers, fish, and fishing." Walton reckons them among the "choice verses of other days."]

TO CELIA.

BEN JONSON.

Born 1574-Died 1637.

Drink to me only with thine

eyes,

And I will pledge with mine,
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine:

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine,

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a chance that there

It could not wither'd be:

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me,

Since when it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

["Of this song," says Ritson, "Anacreon, had Anacreon written in English, need not have been ashamed."

Richard Cumberland tells us that the thoughts are poached from an "obscure collection of love letters, written by the sophist Philostratus." To those who are curious in Greek, we refer them to the Observer, No. lxxiv.; and Gifford's Ben Jonson, vol. 8, p. 267, where they will see the origin of this song explained in several pages.

Jonson is certainly indebted for the idea to the old Greek, but who, save Jonson, could have rendered the thoughts so gracefully? Herrick wrote an address to "The Water Nymphs drinking at a fountain," much in the spirit of the first verse:

Reach with your whiter hands to me

Some crystal of the spring;

And I about the cup shall see

Fresh lilies flourishing:

Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this;
To th' glass your lips incline;

And I shall see by that one kiss
The water turn'd to wine.]

Mr. Gifford reads "hope."

THE SWEET NEGLECT.

BEN JONSON.

Still to be neat, still to be drest,

As

you were going to a feast:
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum❜d,

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes but not mine heart.

It is in imitation of some Latin verses which the reader will find given in Mr. Gifford's edition of Jonson, vol. 3, p. 347. Flecknoe, the

[This very fine song is found in the first act of the "Silent Woman."

learned Editor tells us

caught a gleam of sense from them:

Give me the eyes, give me the face,
To which no art can add a grace,
And me the looks, no garb nor dress,

Can ever make more fair, or less.

Address to the Duchess of Richmond.]

*Percy reads "that."

D

TO CELIA.

BEN JONSON.

Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever:
He, at length, our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set, may rise again;
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile,
Thus removed by our wile?
'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal,

But the sweet thefts to reveal :

To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.

[Sung in the Fox. Gifford calls it a "very elegant and happy imi

tation of particular passages in Catullus."]