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How many times go we to comedies, to masques, to places of great and noble resort, nay even to church only to see the company.

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
Even
Noble
Places
Comedy
Company
Masque
Church
Comedies
Times
Resort
Many
Resorts
Great
Dating

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My love though silly is more brave.
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And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?
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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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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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'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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ask not for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee
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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
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Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.
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Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.
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This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.
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Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, angels affect us oft, and worshiped be.
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Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.
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That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.
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And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.
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I shall not live 'till I see God and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.
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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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Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
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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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Friends are ourselves.
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