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Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?

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
Never
Sickness
Worse
Wells
Well

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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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Men are sponges, which, to pour out, receive Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive. For in best understandings sin began, Angels sinn'd first, then devils, and then man. Only perchance beasts sin not wretched we Are beasts in all but white integrity.
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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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we give each other a smile with a future in it
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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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I shall die reading since my book and a grave are so near.
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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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...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.
John Donne
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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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All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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As he that fears God fears nothing else, so he that sees God sees everything else.
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I am a little world made cunningly.
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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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Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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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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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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I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.
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Who are a little wise the best fools be.
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