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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
Upon
Nothing
Work
Things
Stings
Men
Inborn
Doth
Guilt
Shame

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Never start with tomorrow to reach eternity. Eternity is not being reached by small steps.
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God made sun and moon to distinguish the seasons, and day and night and we cannot have the fruits of the earth but in their seasons. But God hath made no decrees to distinguish the seasons of His mercies. In Paradise the fruits were ripe the first minute, and in heaven it is always autumn. His mercies are ever in their maturity.
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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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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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Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.
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Keep us, Lord, so awake in the duties of our calling that we may sleep in thy peace and wake in thy glory.
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A man that is not afraid of a Lion is afraid of a Cat .
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
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Nature hath no goal though she hath law.
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Let man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this, The intelligence that moves, devotion is.
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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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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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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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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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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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Great sorrows cannot speak.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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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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God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
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That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
John Donne