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Our ease, our thrift, our honor, and our day, |
Shall we, for this vaine Bubles shadow pay? |
Ends love in this, that my man, |
Can be as happy'as I can; If he can |
Endure the short scorne of a Bridegroomes play? |
That loving wretch that sweares, |
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the mindes, |
Which he in her Angelique findes, |
Would sweare as justly, that he heares, |
In that dayes rude hoarse minstralsey, the spheares. |
Hope not for minde in women; at their best, |
Sweetnesse, and wit they'are, but, Mummy, possest. |
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The Flea. |
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Marke but this flea, and marke in this, |
How little that which thou deny'st me is; |
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, |
And in this flea, our two bloods mingled bee; |
Thou know'st that this cannot be said |
A sinne, nor shame nor losse of maidenhead, |
Yet this enjoyes before it wooe, |
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two, |
And this, alas, is more then wee would doe. |
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Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, |
Where wee almost, yea more then maryed are. |
This flea is you and I, and this
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[CW: Our] |