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When I died last, and, Dear, I die As often as from thee I go Though it be but an hour ago, And lovers' hours be full eternity.

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
Full
Farewell
Dies
Retirement
Though
Thee
Hours
Lovers
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Hour
Last
Dear
Often
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Died

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God employs several translators some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.
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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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The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.
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Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.
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At most, the greatest persons are but great wens, and excrescences men of wit and delightful conversation, but as morals for ornament, except they be so incorporated into the body of the world that they contribute something to the sustentation of the whole.
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O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!
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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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To be no part of any body, is to be nothing.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
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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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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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God is so omnipresent. . . . God is an angel in an angel, and a stone in a stone, and a straw in a straw.
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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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Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
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Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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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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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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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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