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I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?

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
Wonder
Sleepers
Pleasure
Dens
Country
Sucked
Love
Pleasures
Till
Childishly
Thou
Troth
Seven
Weaned
Loved
Snorted

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ask not for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee
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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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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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No man is an island, entire of itself every man is a piece of the continent.
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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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Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
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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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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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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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O Lord, never suffer us to think that we can stand by ourselves, and not need thee.
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We love and understand talent we wish it be within us. The truly gifted, those exceptional few, must wait for the world to catch up.
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When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.
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But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
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Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.
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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
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