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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
Perplexed
Poor
Soul

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Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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To an incompetent judge I must not lie, but I may be silent to a competent I must answer.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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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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Between these two, the denying of sins, which we have done, and the bragging of sins, which we have not done, what a space, what a compass is there, for millions of millions of sins!
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Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.
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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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Death, thou shalt die.
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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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God made sun and moon to distinguish the seasons, and day and night and we cannot have the fruits of the earth but in their seasons. But God hath made no decrees to distinguish the seasons of His mercies. In Paradise the fruits were ripe the first minute, and in heaven it is always autumn. His mercies are ever in their maturity.
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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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Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.
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Poor heretics there be,Which think to establish dangerous constancy,But I have told them, ‘Since you will be true,You shall be true to them, who are false to you.
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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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Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you As yet but knock breathe, shine, and seek to mend That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
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Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
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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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