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Laddar... The Fleaav John DonneIngen/inga Laddar...
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Reclining on the divan with Lord Cholmondeley's daughter, flushed from wine and kisses. She has her virtue. He's a gentleman. Doesn't want to press the issue, oh no. But . . . buzz, buzz, here comes this little bloodsucking thing, and it touches down on her arm and bites, and drinks, and what he wouldn't give to be in that flea's position . . . .
So "mark but this flea"! he says, and a grin slowly spreads from ear to ear. "In this flea, our two bloods mingled be." You like me, right? Well, look: it won't hurt. It's basically already accomplished. And kinda dirty. Two bloods mingled be, so shall we--mingle them again?
But milady's no pushover. "That for your flea," says she, and raises her hand to strike. And Donne just ups his game. "Oh stay!" he cries, grabbing her hand, smothering it with kisses. Not only is this flea a vessel for our life's blood--he's also "our marriage bed, and marriage temple . . . . Though use make you apt to kill me"--cruel lady--"let not to that self-murder added be, and sacrilege, three sins in killing three." Devastating. ( )