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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.

John Donne

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John Donne
Died: 1631
Died: March 31
Lawyer
Pastor
Poet
Politician
Songwriter
Translator
Writer
London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
Bury
Save
None
Since
Would

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Of all the commentaries on the Scriptures, good examples are the best.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.
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The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.
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Tis true, 'tis day what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night? Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither Should in despite of light keep us together.
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O Lord, never suffer us to think that we can stand by ourselves, and not need thee.
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Who are a little wise the best fools be.
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What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
John Donne
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If we consider eternity, into that time never entered eternity is not an everlasting flux of time, but time is as a short parenthesis in a long period and eternity had been the same as it is, though time had never been.
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That which attempts to elevate the ugly to the level of beauty becomes neither but an obscenity.
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And if there be any addition to knowledge, it is rather a new knowledge than a greater knowledge rather a singularity in a desire of proposing something that was not knownat all beforethananimproving, anadvancing, a multiplying of former inceptions and by that means, no knowledge comes to be perfect.
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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
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Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!
John Donne