The Flea

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou deny'st me is;

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea, our two bloods mingled be;

Thou knowest 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.

Woman catching fleas, circa 1630

Oh 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 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 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 sayest 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 yieldst to me,

    Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

                            -- John Donne (1572-1631)

Join us in a discussion of this poem with Professor Helen Brooks, Donne scholar and co-director of Interdisciplinary Studies in Humanities.

Friday, October 24th, 4-5:30pm, Flo Mo Main Lounge

All residents and their guests invited