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To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.

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
Roam
Doth
Everywhere
Travel
Freedom
Become
Home
Banishment

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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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Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.
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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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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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In heaven it is always autumn.
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It is too little to call man a little world Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
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I shall not live 'till I see God and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.
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My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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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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Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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Pleasure is none, if not diversified.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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Be more than man, or thou'rt less than an ant.
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When I died last, and, Dear, I die As often as from thee I go Though it be but an hour ago, And lovers' hours be full eternity.
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