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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
Doth
Guilt
Shame
Upon
Nothing
Work
Things
Stings
Men
Inborn

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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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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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God is so omnipresent. . . . God is an angel in an angel, and a stone in a stone, and a straw in a straw.
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'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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In heaven it is always autumn.
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Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.
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All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.
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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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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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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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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow, And for our children we reserve tomorrow.
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Be more than man, or thou'rt less than an ant.
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The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.
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Death, thou shalt die.
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