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Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.

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
Integrity
Clean
Either
Sleep
Night
Hands
Washed
Repentance
Kept

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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?
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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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The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.
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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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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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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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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
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And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?
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Keep us, Lord, so awake in the duties of our calling that we may sleep in thy peace and wake in thy glory.
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Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.
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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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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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The rich have no more of the kingdom of heaven than they have purchased of the poor by their alms.
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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There is nothing that God hath established in a constant course of nature, and which therefore is done every day, but would seem a Miracle, and exercise our admiration, if it were done but once.
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