MArke but this flea, and marke in this,
How little that which thou deny’ſt me is;
It ſuck’d me firſt, and now ſucks thee,
And in this flea, our two bloods mingled bee;
Thou know’ſt that this cannot be ſaid
A ſinne, nor ſhame nor loſſe of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoyes before it wooe,
And pamper’d ſwells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more then wee would doe.
Oh ſtay, three lives in one flea ſpare,
Where wee almoſt, yea more then maryed are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our mariage bed, and mariage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met,
And cloyſterd in theſe living walls of Jet.
Though uſe make you apt to kill mee,
Let not to that, ſelfe murder added bee,
And ſacrilege, three ſinnes in killing three.
Cruell and ſodaine, haſt thou ſince
Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty bee,
Except in that drop which it ſuckt from thee?
Yet thou triumph’ſt, and ſaiſt that thou
Find’ſt not thy ſelfe, nor mee the weaker now;
’Tis true, then learne how falſe, feares bee;
Juſt ſo much honor, when thou yeeld’ſt to mee,
Will waſt, as this flea’s death tooke life from thee.