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Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?

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
Call
Seasons
Running
Thou
Must
Lovers
Pedantic
Love
Thus
Unruly
Busy
Dost
Window
Motions
Sun
Curtains
Fool
Windows

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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.
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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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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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When my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive tread upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.
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If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned alas why should I be?
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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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Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
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When God's hand is bent to strike, it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God but to fall out of the hands of the living God is a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination.
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We love and understand talent we wish it be within us. The truly gifted, those exceptional few, must wait for the world to catch up.
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My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
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The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.
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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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