Quote

That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.

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
Sense
Affection
Descend
Makes
Souls
Knots
Else
Lovers
Affections
May
Prison
Faculties
Soul
Reach
Deceit
Must
Lies
Prince
Great
Pure
Faculty
Apprehend
Men
Lying
Subtle
Knot

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It is too little to call man a little world Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.
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Men are sponges, which, to pour out, receive Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive. For in best understandings sin began, Angels sinn'd first, then devils, and then man. Only perchance beasts sin not wretched we Are beasts in all but white integrity.
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If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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And if there be any addition to knowledge, it is rather a new knowledge than a greater knowledge rather a singularity in a desire of proposing something that was not knownat all beforethananimproving, anadvancing, a multiplying of former inceptions and by that means, no knowledge comes to be perfect.
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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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Friends are ourselves.
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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?
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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
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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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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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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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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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In heaven it is always autumn.
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ask not for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee
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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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