Poem: THE FLEA by John Donne

Portrait of John Donne

 

John Donne (1572-1631) was the first and greatest of the English writers who came to be known as the Metaphysical poets. These poets of 17th-century England often wrote of personal situations using intellectual complexity and innovative, often startling, analogies or metaphors.  Donne wrote in a revolutionary style that combined highly intellectual conceits (unconventional metaphors) with complex, compressed phrasing.   In "The Flea" the male speaker uses an elaborate logical argument to convince the female auditor to engage in a sexual relationship with him and thereby "seize the day."  This is a fun poem, but it is also historically remote, so please click on the image below for a presentation in which I give further explication and contextualization. 

 

Roman School, 17th Century - Old Master Paintings       Presentation:  "The Flea" by John Donne.  

 

The Flea

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,   

How little that which thou deniest me is;   

It sucked 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 pampered swells with one blood made of two,

    And this, alas, is more than we would do.

 

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, nay 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 are met,   

And cloistered 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 sucked from thee?   

Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou   

Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;

    ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:

    Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,

    Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.