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That which attempts to elevate the ugly to the level of beauty becomes neither but an obscenity.

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
Beauty
Obscenity
Elevate
Attempts
Ugly
Neither
Level
Becomes
Levels
Bling

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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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A man that is not afraid of a Lion is afraid of a Cat .
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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in, and invite God, and his Angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his Angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.
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Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.
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And when a whirl-winde hath blowne the dust of the Churchyard into the Church, and man sweeps out the dust of the Church into the Church-yard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble flower, and this the yeomanly, this the Plebian bran.
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As God loves a cheerful giver, so he also loves a cheerful taker. Who takes hold of his gifts with a glad heart.
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We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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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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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more Death, thou shalt die.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
John Donne
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That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
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There is nothing that God hath established in a constant course of nature, and which therefore is done every day, but would seem a Miracle, and exercise our admiration, if it were done but once.
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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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As states subsist in part by keeping their weaknesses from being known, so is it the quiet of families to have their chancery and their parliament within doors, and to compose and determine all emergent differences there.
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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?
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