Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, or shame, or 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 flea spare,
Where we almost, nay more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our mariage bed and mariage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, we are met,
And cloisterd 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 three.
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 thy self, 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.
Tag: poem sonnet john-donne songs-and-sonnets the-flea
Changed loves are but changed sorts of meat,
And when he hath the kernel eat,
Who doth not fling away the shell?
For this, Love is enraged with me;
Yet kills not. If I must example be
To future rebels, if the unborn
Must learn by my being cut up and torn,
Kill and dissect me, Love; for this
Torture against thine own end is:
Racked carcasses make ill anatomies
If that be simply perfectest
Which can by no way be expressed
But negatives, my love is so.
To all which all love, I say no.
If any who deciphers best
What we know not, ourselves, can know
Let him teach me that nothing.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
Only our love hath no decay;
This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,
Running it never runs from us away,
But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.
But, O alas! so long, so far,
Our bodies why do we forbear?
Tag: love
Doubt wisely; in strange way
To stand inquiring right, is not to stray;
To sleep, or run wrong, is.
Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so.
John DonneTag: poetry
Thy sins and hairs may no man equal call,
for as thy sins increase, thy hairs do fall.
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