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Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.

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
Men
Inborn
Doth
Guilt
Shame
Upon
Nothing
Work
Things
Stings

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Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.
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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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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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Friends are ourselves.
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Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you As yet but knock breathe, shine, and seek to mend That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
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I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.
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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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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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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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If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two, Thy soul the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do.
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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it and made fit for God.
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God employs several translators some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.
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And if there be any addition to knowledge, it is rather a new knowledge than a greater knowledge rather a singularity in a desire of proposing something that was not knownat all beforethananimproving, anadvancing, a multiplying of former inceptions and by that means, no knowledge comes to be perfect.
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When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.
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If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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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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Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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