by John Donne
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, has 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 thyself, 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.