This is a poem
by John Donne
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that thou deniest me is;
It suck'd me first, and now it 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 enjoy before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two;
And this, alas! is more than we would do
O stay, three lives in one flea 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, we're met,
and cloister'd 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 the blood of innocence?
Wherein this flea could guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd 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 honour, when thoust yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.