Flea, The
by: John Donne (1573 - 1631)
Mark but this flea, and mark in this
How little which thou deny'st me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be:
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flee spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w' are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not, to that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing be.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself, nor me the weaker now;
'Tis true, then learn how false fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.
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Lecture upon the Shadow, A
Lovers' Infiniteness
Love's Alchemy
Song: Sweetest Love I Do Not Go
Bait, The
Prohibition, The
Woman's Constancy
Canonization, A
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