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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.

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
Swear
Fairs
Fair
Woman
Lives
True
Women
Life

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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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Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
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Never start with tomorrow to reach eternity. Eternity is not being reached by small steps.
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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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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There is hook in every benefit, that sticks in his jaws that takes that benefit, and draws him whither the benefactor will.
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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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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?
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Great sorrows cannot speak.
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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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Nature hath no goal though she hath law.
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Who are a little wise the best fools be.
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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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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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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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In heaven it is always autumn.
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Death, thou shalt die.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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