 | Poems (1872) |  |
157
ON A FLEA ON HIS MISTRESS' BOSOM.
Madam, that flea which crept between your brestI envyde that there he should make his rest;
The little creature's fortune was soe good
That angells' feed not on so precious food.
158
Madam, shall fleas before me tickle you?—
Oh, I not hould can; pardon if I kill yt!
Sweet blood, to you I aske this, that which fill'd it
Runne from my ladie's brest. Come, happie flea,
That dyde for suckinge of that milky-sea.
Oh, now againe I cold e'en wish thee there,
About her hart, about her any where:
I would vowe, deare flea, thou sholdst not dye,
If [that] thou couldst suck from her her crueltie.
| Poems (1872) | |