MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now 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 enjoys before it woo,
    And pamper'd 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 blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea 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 thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

THE GOOD-MORROW.
by John Donne


I WONDER by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved ? were we not wean'd till then ? 
But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly ? 
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den ?
'Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ;
If ever any beauty I did see, 
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls, 
Which watch not one another out of fear ;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone ;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown ;
Let us possess one world ; each hath one, and is one. 

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, 
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest ;
Where can we find two better hemispheres 
Without sharp north, without declining west ?
Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally ;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I 
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.

SONG.
by John Donne


GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
            And find
            What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind. 

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
            And swear,
            No where
Lives a woman true and fair. 

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
            Yet she
            Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three. 

WOMAN'S CONSTANCY.
by John Donne


NOW thou hast loved me one whole day,
To-morrow when thou leavest, what wilt thou say ?
Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow ?
            Or say that now
We are not just those persons which we were ?
Or that oaths made in reverential fear
Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear ?
Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,
So lovers' contracts, images of those,
Bind but till sleep, death's image, them unloose ?
            Or, your own end to justify,
For having purposed change and falsehood, you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true ?
Vain lunatic, against these 'scapes I could
            Dispute, and conquer, if I would ;
            Which I abstain to do,
For by to-morrow I may think so too.

THE UNDERTAKING.
by John Donne


I HAVE done one braver thing
      Than all the Worthies did ; 
And yet a braver thence doth spring, 
      Which is, to keep that hid.

It were but madness now to impart 
      The skill of specular stone, 
When he, which can have learn'd the art 
      To cut it, can find none.

So, if I now should utter this, 
      Others—because no more 
Such stuff to work upon, there is—
      Would love but as before.

But he who loveliness within 
      Hath found, all outward loathes, 
For he who color loves, and skin, 
      Loves but their oldest clothes.

If, as I have, you also do 
      Virtue in woman see,
And dare love that, and say so too, 
      And forget the He and She ;

And if this love, though placèd so, 
      From profane men you hide, 
Which will no faith on this bestow, 
      Or, if they do, deride ;

Then you have done a braver thing 
      Than all the Worthies did ; 
And a braver thence will spring, 
      Which is, to keep that hid.

NO lover saith, I love, nor any other 
            Can judge a perfect lover ; 
He thinks that else none can or will agree,
            That any loves but he ;
I cannot say I loved, for who can say 
            He was kill'd yesterday.
Love with excess of heat, more young than old, 
            Death kills with too much cold ;
We die but once, and who loved last did die, 
            He that saith, twice, doth lie ;
For though he seem to move, and stir a while,
            It doth the sense beguile. 
Such life is like the light which bideth yet
            When the life's light is set,
Or like the heat which fire in solid matter
            Leaves behind, two hours after. 
Once I loved and died ; and am now become 
            Mine epitaph and tomb ;
Here dead men speak their last, and so do I ;
            Love-slain, lo ! here I die. 

SEND me some tokens, that my hope may live
    Or that my easeless thoughts may sleep and rest ;
Send me some honey, to make sweet my hive,
    That in my passions I may hope the best.
I beg nor ribbon wrought with thine own hands,
    To knit our loves in the fantastic strain
Of new-touch'd youth ; nor ring to show the stands
    Of our affection, that, as that's round and plain,
So should our loves meet in simplicity ;
    No, nor the corals, which thy wrist enfold,
Laced up together in congruity,
    To show our thoughts should rest in the same hold ;
No, nor thy picture, though most gracious, 
    And most desired, 'cause 'tis like the best
Nor witty lines, which are most copious,
    Within the writings which thou hast address'd.
Send me nor this nor that, to increase my score,
But swear thou think'st I love thee, and no more.

THE SUN RISING.
by John Donne


        BUSY old fool, unruly Sun, 
        Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ? 
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ? 
        Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide 
        Late school-boys and sour prentices, 
    Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, 
    Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, 
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. 

        Thy beams so reverend, and strong 
        Why shouldst thou think ? 
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, 
But that I would not lose her sight so long. 
        If her eyes have not blinded thine, 
        Look, and to-morrow late tell me, 
    Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine 
    Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me. 
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, 
And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay." 

        She's all states, and all princes I ;
        Nothing else is ; 
Princes do but play us ; compared to this, 
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. 
        Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we, 
        In that the world's contracted thus ; 
    Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be 
    To warm the world, that's done in warming us. 
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ; 
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.