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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.

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
Gone
Dies
Hate
Art
Women
Thou
Shall

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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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Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
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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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My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
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As he that fears God fears nothing else, so he that sees God sees everything else.
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we give each other a smile with a future in it
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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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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
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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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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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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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Pleasure is none, if not diversified.
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Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.
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There is no health physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.
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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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Never start with tomorrow to reach eternity. Eternity is not being reached by small steps.
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I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
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Commemoration of Richard Meux Benson, Founder of the Society of St John the Evangelist, 1915 Our critical day is not the very day of our death, but the whole course of our life I thank him, that prays for me when my bell tolls but I thank him much more, that catechizes me, or preaches to me, or instructs me how to live.
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