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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
Festive
Excess
Alcohol
Leads
Honesty
Truth
Sometimes

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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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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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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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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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I shall not live 'till I see God and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.
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A man that is not afraid of a Lion is afraid of a Cat .
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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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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Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.
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And when a whirl-winde hath blowne the dust of the Churchyard into the Church, and man sweeps out the dust of the Church into the Church-yard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble flower, and this the yeomanly, this the Plebian bran.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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Poor heretics there be,Which think to establish dangerous constancy,But I have told them, ‘Since you will be true,You shall be true to them, who are false to you.
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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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ask not for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee
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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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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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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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The day breaks not, it is my heart.
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