Quote

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.

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
Self
Lasts
Jest
Must
Last
Weariness
Love
Show
Deaths
World
Hope
Sweetest
Use
Thee
Death
Thus
Shows
Since
Fitter
Best
Dies
Feign

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O Lord, never suffer us to think that we can stand by ourselves, and not need thee.
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Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
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If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned alas why should I be?
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The difference between the reason of man and the instinct of the beast is this, that the beast does but know, but the man knows that he knows.
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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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we give each other a smile with a future in it
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'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.
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Let me arrest thy thoughts, wonder with me, Why ploughing, building, ruling and the rest, Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blessed, By cursed Cain's race invented be, And blessed Seth vexed us with astronomy.
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There is no health physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.
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The rich have no more of the kingdom of heaven than they have purchased of the poor by their alms.
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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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How many times go we to comedies, to masques, to places of great and noble resort, nay even to church only to see the company.
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Let man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this, The intelligence that moves, devotion is.
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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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This Extasie doth unperplex (We said) and tell us what we love, Wee see by this, it was not sexe, Wee see, we saw not what did move: But as all severall soules contain Mixture of things, they know not what, Love, these mixt souls, doth mixe againe. Loves mysteries in soules doe grow, But yet the body is his booke.
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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The day breaks not, it is my heart.
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Who are a little wise the best fools be.
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