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Who are a little wise the best fools be.

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
Best
Little
Fools
Intelligence
Intellectual
Fool
Wise
Littles

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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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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
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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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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.
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I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.
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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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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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The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.
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Between these two, the denying of sins, which we have done, and the bragging of sins, which we have not done, what a space, what a compass is there, for millions of millions of sins!
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And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.
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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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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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But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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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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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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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.
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