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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
Repentance
Kept
Integrity
Clean
Either
Sleep
Night
Hands
Washed

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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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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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In the first minute that my soul is infused, the Image of God is imprinted in my soul so forward is God in my behalf, and so early does he visit me.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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Eternity is not an everlasting flux of time, but time is as a short parenthesis in a long period.
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Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.
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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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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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Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
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Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow, And for our children we reserve tomorrow.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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When my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive tread upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.
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This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.
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Full nakedness! All my joys are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, to taste whole joys.
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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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If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
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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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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
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