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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

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
Poore
Canst
Thou
Thee
Kill
Dies
Death

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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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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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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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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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My love though silly is more brave.
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No man is an island, entire of itself every man is a piece of the continent.
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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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All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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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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That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.
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Be more than man, or thou'rt less than an ant.
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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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Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
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Friends are ourselves.
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That which attempts to elevate the ugly to the level of beauty becomes neither but an obscenity.
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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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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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Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.
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