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

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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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As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no.
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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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O Lord, never suffer us to think that we can stand by ourselves, and not need thee.
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No man is an island, entire of itself every man is a piece of the continent.
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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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Poor heretics there be,Which think to establish dangerous constancy,But I have told them, ‘Since you will be true,You shall be true to them, who are false to you.
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My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
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In the first minute that my soul is infused, the Image of God is imprinted in my soul so forward is God in my behalf, and so early does he visit me.
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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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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
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To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.
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