The Bait (by John Donne)
John Donne, 1572-1631
The Bait
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 whispering run,
Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun.
And there th'enamour'd fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.
When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
If thou, to be so seen, beest loath,
By sun or moon, thou darken'st both;
And if myself 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 snare or windowy net.
Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes' wandering eyes.
For thee, thou needest no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait;
That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.
With this poem, Donne was responding to Christopher Marlowe's "Passionate Shepherd to His Love."
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I always confuse this poem with Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."
"Had we world enough and time,
This coyness lady were no crime."
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Ah, yes! I can see why.
Thanks for reminding me of that poem - I'll have to add it in the future.
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Here is a long one by Donne.
Song
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root.
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What winds
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights
Till age snow white hairs on thee
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
I thou find'st one, let me know;
Such a pilgrimage were sweet,
Yet do not; I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet.
Though she were true when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be,
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
(1633)
(And this may suggest what Donne really
thought of women)
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I don't understand. If Donne lived from
1571-1631 how he could have written this in 1633 after he died? There is a mistake here somewhere? Maybe it was published posthumously?
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No mistake, Elena... most of Donne's poems were published posthumously.
You might find this article of interest: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne.
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