|
| Cruell and sodaine, hast thou since |
| Purpled thy Nayle, in blood of innocence? |
| Wherein could this flea guilty be, |
| Except in that drop which it suck't from thee? |
| Yet thou triumph'st, and saist that thou |
| Find'st not thy selfe, nor me the weaker now; |
| 'Tis true, then learne how false, feares be; |
| Iust so much honour, when thou yeeldst to mee, |
| Will wast, as this flea's death tooke life from thee. |
|
| The good-morrow. |
|
| I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I |
| Did, till we lov'd, were we not wean'd till then? |
| But suck'd on countrey plasures, childishly? |
| Or snorted we in the seven-sleepers den? |
| T'was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee. |
| If ever any beauty I did see, |
| Which I desir'd, and got, t'was but a dream of thee. |
|
| And now good-morrow to our waking soules, |
| Which watch not one another out of feare; |
| For love, all love of other sights controules, |
| And makes one little roome, an every where. |
| Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, |
| Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne, |
| Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is one. |
|
| My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares, |
| And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,
|
[CW: Where] |