Classic Poem

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, hee knight-like dies in blood.