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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.

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
Excess
Alcohol
Leads
Honesty
Truth
Sometimes
Festive

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Let me arrest thy thoughts, wonder with me, Why ploughing, building, ruling and the rest, Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blessed, By cursed Cain's race invented be, And blessed Seth vexed us with astronomy.
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Men are sponges, which, to pour out, receive Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive. For in best understandings sin began, Angels sinn'd first, then devils, and then man. Only perchance beasts sin not wretched we Are beasts in all but white integrity.
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I would not that death should take me asleep. I would not have him merely seize me, and only declare me to be dead, but win me, and overcome me. When I must shipwreck, I would do it in a sea, where mine impotency might have some excuse not in a sullen weedy lake, where I could not have so much as exercise for my swimming.
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Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
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But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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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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Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.
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Who are a little wise the best fools be.
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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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In heaven it is always autumn.
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Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
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Friends are ourselves.
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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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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more Death, thou shalt die.
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