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What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?

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
Marriage
Damnation
Worm
Eternally
Worms
Torment
Bed
Tickling
Sight
Gnawing
Comfort
Secluded

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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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Death, thou shalt die.
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Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
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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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ask not for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee
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God is so omnipresent. . . . God is an angel in an angel, and a stone in a stone, and a straw in a straw.
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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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Commemoration of Richard Meux Benson, Founder of the Society of St John the Evangelist, 1915 Our critical day is not the very day of our death, but the whole course of our life I thank him, that prays for me when my bell tolls but I thank him much more, that catechizes me, or preaches to me, or instructs me how to live.
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How many times go we to comedies, to masques, to places of great and noble resort, nay even to church only to see the company.
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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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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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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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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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I am a little world made cunningly.
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Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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I shall die reading since my book and a grave are so near.
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