Welcome back to the Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios.

I'm Sean Johnson, and today is Tuesday, February 13th, 2004.

Today's poem is by John Dunn, and it's called The Flea.

Some listener discretion may be advised, as the poet does fully assume his reader or listener is acquainted, at least

cursorily, with the birds and the bees. I'll read the poem once, offer a few comments,

and then read it one more time. It is nearly springtime, after all. Here is 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 flee 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.

O 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 you's 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 flee guilty be, except in that drop which it sucked from thee?

Yet thou triumphs and sayest that thou find'st not thyself, nor me the weaker now. Tis true, then learn how false fears be.

Just so much honor, when thou yields to me,

will waste as this flees death took life from thee. Cheeky and a little bit body poem here today.

In the 1590s, when William Shakespeare was beginning to write some of his master dramatic works,

a young law student, also living in London, was writing this poem.

John Dunn, who's best known maybe for his more mature and religious poetry,

especially his holy sonnets, had a bit of a raucous youth before coming to the seriousness

...