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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. |
|
|
| The Flea. |
|
| 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. |
|
| 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] |