THE FLEA.

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that, which thou deny'st me, is;
Me it suck'd first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Confess it. This cannot be said

A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead,

Yet this enjoys, before it woo,

And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two,

And this, alas! is more than we could do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, nay more than marry'd are.
'This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed and marriage temple is ;
Though parents grudge, and you, w' are 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 blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that blood, 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 thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

BREAK OF DAY.

STAY, O sweet, and do not rise,

The light, that shines, comes from thine eyes;
The day breaks not, it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay, or else my joys will die,
And perish in their infancy.

'Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise, because 'tis light?
Did we lie down because 'twas night?

Love, which in spite of darkness brought us

hither,

Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;

If it could speak as well as spy,

This were the worst that it could say,

That being well, I fain would stay,

And that I lov'd my heart and honour so,

That I would not from her, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, that's the worst disease of love;

The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.

He which hath business, and makes love, doth do Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.

A VALEDICTION OF MY NAME,

IN THE WINDOW.

Mr name engrav'd herein,

Doth contribute my firmness to this glass,
Which ever since that charm hath been
As hard as that, which grav'd it, was;
Thine eye will give it price enough, to mock
The diamonds of either rock.

'Tis much that glass should be As all confessing and through-shine as I, 'Tis more that it shows thee to thee, And clear reflects thee to thine eye. But all such rules love's magic can undo, Here you see me, and I see you.

As no one point nor dash,
Which are but accessaries to this name,
The show'rs and tempests can outwash,
So shall all times find me the same;
You this entireness better may fulfil,

Who have the pattern with you still.

VALEDICTION TO HIS BOOK.

I'LL tell thee now (dear love) what thou shalt do To anger destiny, as she doth us;

How I shall stay, though she eloigne me thus,
And how posterity shall know it too;

How thine may out-endure
Sibyl's glory, and obscure

Her, who from Pindar could allure,
And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame,
And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find
and name.

Study our manuscripts, those myriads

Of letters, which have past 'twixt thee and me, Thence write our annals, and in them will be To all, whom love's subliming fire invades, Rule and example found; There, the faith of any ground

No schismatic will dare to wound, That sees how love this grace to us affords, To make, to keep, to use, to be, these his records.

This book, as long liv'd as the elements,

Or as the world's form, this all-graved tomb,
In cipher writ, or new made idiom;

We for love's clergy only are instruments;
When this book is made thus,

Should again the ravenous

Vandals and Goths invade us,

Learning were safe in this our universe, [verse. Schools might learn sciences, spheres music, angels

LOVE'S ALCHYMY.

SOME that have deeper digg'd Love's mine than I, Say, where his centric happiness doth lie:

I've lov'd, and got, and told,

But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
I should not find that hidden mystery;
Oh, 'tis imposture all :

And as no chymic yet th' elixir got,
But glorifies his pregnant pot,
If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, medicinal,

So lovers dream a rich and long delight,
But get a winter-seeming summer's night.

Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,
Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay?
Ends love in this, that my man
Can be as happy as I; if he can

Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play!
That loving wretch that swears,

'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds, Which he in her angelic finds,

Would swear as justly, that he hears,

In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres. Hope not for mind in women; at their best Sweetness and wit, they 're but mummy possest.