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Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.

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
Grown
Bed
Lying
Whilst
Love
Physicians
Flat
Flats
Maps

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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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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more Death, thou shalt die.
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There is no health physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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I shall die reading since my book and a grave are so near.
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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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To be no part of any body, is to be nothing.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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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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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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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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When I died last, and, Dear, I die As often as from thee I go Though it be but an hour ago, And lovers' hours be full eternity.
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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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As God loves a cheerful giver, so he also loves a cheerful taker. Who takes hold of his gifts with a glad heart.
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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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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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I will not look upon the quickening sun, But straight her beauty to my sense shall run The air shall note her soft, the fire most pure Water suggest her clear, and the earth sure Time shall not lose our passages.
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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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It is too little to call man a little world Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.
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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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