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Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.

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
Spoiling
Enjoyment
Otherwise
Joy
Happiness
Cannot
Always

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In the first minute that my soul is infused, the Image of God is imprinted in my soul so forward is God in my behalf, and so early does he visit me.
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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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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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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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I am a little world made cunningly.
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No man is an island, entire of itself every man is a piece of the continent.
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The difference between the reason of man and the instinct of the beast is this, that the beast does but know, but the man knows that he knows.
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As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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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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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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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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I have done one braver thing than all the Worthies did, and yet a braver thence doth spring, which is, to keep that hid.
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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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Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee.
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