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Tis true, 'tis day what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night? Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither Should in despite of light keep us together.

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
Keep
Despite
Night
Rise
True
Thou
Light
Brought
Together
Therefore
Hither
Love
Darkness
Twas
Though
Wilt
Lying
Spite

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What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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When God's hand is bent to strike, it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God but to fall out of the hands of the living God is a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination.
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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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Never start with tomorrow to reach eternity. Eternity is not being reached by small steps.
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And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.
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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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Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
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That which attempts to elevate the ugly to the level of beauty becomes neither but an obscenity.
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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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To be no part of any body, is to be nothing.
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...Whatever dies was not mixed equally, If our two loves be one Or thou and I love so alike That none can slacken, none can die.
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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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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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All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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Great sorrows cannot speak.
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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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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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