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And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, the element of fire is quite put out the Sun is lost, and the earth, and no mans wit can well direct him where to look for it.

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
Quite
Element
Fire
Calls
Lost
Philosopher
Earth
Sun
Look
Elements
Wells
Direct
Mans
Well
Philosophy
Coherence
Looks
Doubt
Wit

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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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The flea, though he kill none, he does all the harm he can.
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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more Death, thou shalt die.
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At most, the greatest persons are but great wens, and excrescences men of wit and delightful conversation, but as morals for ornament, except they be so incorporated into the body of the world that they contribute something to the sustentation of the whole.
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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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To an incompetent judge I must not lie, but I may be silent to a competent I must answer.
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I am a little world made cunningly.
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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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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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There is hook in every benefit, that sticks in his jaws that takes that benefit, and draws him whither the benefactor will.
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Who are a little wise the best fools be.
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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!
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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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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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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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Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
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True joy is the earnest which we have of heaven, it is the treasure of the soul, and therefore should be laid in a safe place, and nothing in this world is safe to place it in.
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