The Happinesse of a Flea.

HOw Happier is that Flea
Which in thy Brest doth playe,
Than that pied Butterflie
Which courtes the Flame, and in the same doth die?
That hath a light Delight
(Poore Foole) contented only with a Sight,
When this doth sporte, and swell with dearest Food,
And if hee die, he Knight-like dies in Blood.

Of that same.

POore Flea, then thou didst die,
Yet by so faire a Hand,
That thus to die was Destine to command:
Thou die didst, yet didst trie
A Louers last Delight,
To vault on virgine Plaines, Her kisse, and bite:
Thou diedst, yet hast thy Tombe
Betweene those Pappes, deare and stately Roome!
Flea, happier farre, more blest,
Than Phœnix burning in his spicie Nest.

From William Drummond, Poems (London: Hart, 1616), fol. P3r.