The Flea
John Donne
1572 to 1631
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Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
little that which thou deniest me is;
It me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know’st that cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss maidenhead,
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
pampered swells with one blood made of two,
this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, more than married are.
This flea is you I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though make you apt to kill me,
Let not that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled nail, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou
Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;
’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:
so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,
waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.