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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.

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
God
Chamber
Angel
Invites
Door
Coach
Doors
Neglect
Prayer
Angels
Thither
Call
Coaches
Rattling
Religion
Noise
Whining
Christian
Throw
Invite

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Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow, And for our children we reserve tomorrow.
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And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, the element of fire is quite put out the Sun is lost, and the earth, and no mans wit can well direct him where to look for it.
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There is no health physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.
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Death, thou shalt die.
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Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.
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As he that fears God fears nothing else, so he that sees God sees everything else.
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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.
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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.
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Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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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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Pleasure is none, if not diversified.
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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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I will not look upon the quickening sun, But straight her beauty to my sense shall run The air shall note her soft, the fire most pure Water suggest her clear, and the earth sure Time shall not lose our passages.
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