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And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.

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
Dare
Forget
Love

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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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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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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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I would not that death should take me asleep. I would not have him merely seize me, and only declare me to be dead, but win me, and overcome me. When I must shipwreck, I would do it in a sea, where mine impotency might have some excuse not in a sullen weedy lake, where I could not have so much as exercise for my swimming.
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In heaven it is always autumn.
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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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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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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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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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Of all the commentaries on the Scriptures, good examples are the best.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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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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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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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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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
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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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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more Death, thou shalt die.
John Donne