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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
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Writer
London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
Must
Last
Weariness
Love
Show
Deaths
World
Hope
Sweetest
Use
Thee
Death
Thus
Shows
Since
Fitter
Best
Dies
Feign
Self
Lasts
Jest

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Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
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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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It is too little to call man a little world Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.
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When my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive tread upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.
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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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I have done one braver thing than all the Worthies did, and yet a braver thence doth spring, which is, to keep that hid.
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There is nothing that God hath established in a constant course of nature, and which therefore is done every day, but would seem a Miracle, and exercise our admiration, if it were done but once.
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That thou remember them, some claim as debt I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.
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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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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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Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, angels affect us oft, and worshiped be.
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That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
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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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God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it and made fit for God.
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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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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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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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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