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But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.

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
Executioner
Executioners
Sabotage
Upon
Nothing

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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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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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That thou remember them, some claim as debt I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.
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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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Nature hath no goal though she hath law.
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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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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
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To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.
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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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My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
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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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Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.
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Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.
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we give each other a smile with a future in it
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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
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O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!
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To be no part of any body, is to be nothing.
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We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.
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Tis true, 'tis day what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night? Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither Should in despite of light keep us together.
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