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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!

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
Poor
Soul
Perplexed

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Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.
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My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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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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I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.
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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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When God's hand is bent to strike, it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God but to fall out of the hands of the living God is a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination.
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At most, the greatest persons are but great wens, and excrescences men of wit and delightful conversation, but as morals for ornament, except they be so incorporated into the body of the world that they contribute something to the sustentation of the whole.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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Friends are ourselves.
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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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The rich have no more of the kingdom of heaven than they have purchased of the poor by their alms.
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If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned alas why should I be?
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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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But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
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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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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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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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Tis true, 'tis day what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night? Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither Should in despite of light keep us together.
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