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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
Truth
Sometimes
Festive
Excess
Alcohol
Leads
Honesty

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That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
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True joy is the earnest which we have of heaven, it is the treasure of the soul, and therefore should be laid in a safe place, and nothing in this world is safe to place it in.
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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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Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?
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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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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in, and invite God, and his Angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his Angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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ask not for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee
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My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
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In heaven it is always autumn.
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Friends are ourselves.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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I shall die reading since my book and a grave are so near.
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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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Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
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Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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