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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

John Donne

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John Donne
Died: 1631
Died: March 31
Lawyer
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London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
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I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
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Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
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Men are sponges, which, to pour out, receive Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive. For in best understandings sin began, Angels sinn'd first, then devils, and then man. Only perchance beasts sin not wretched we Are beasts in all but white integrity.
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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
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I am a little world made cunningly.
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In heaven it is always autumn.
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The flea, though he kill none, he does all the harm he can.
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Let me arrest thy thoughts, wonder with me, Why ploughing, building, ruling and the rest, Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blessed, By cursed Cain's race invented be, And blessed Seth vexed us with astronomy.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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Commemoration of Pandita Mary Ramabai, Translator of the Scriptures, 1922 A memory of yesterday's pleasures, a fear of tomorrow's dangers, a straw under my knees, a noise in my ear, a light in my eye, an anything, a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayers.
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As he that fears God fears nothing else, so he that sees God sees everything else.
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Between these two, the denying of sins, which we have done, and the bragging of sins, which we have not done, what a space, what a compass is there, for millions of millions of sins!
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Death, thou shalt die.
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To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.
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The sun must not set upon anger, much less will I let the sun set upon the anger of God towards me.
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My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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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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That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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