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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.

John Donne

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John Donne
Died: 1631
Died: March 31
Lawyer
Pastor
Poet
Politician
Songwriter
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Writer
London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
Understanding
False
Beasts
Rather
Began
Deceive
White
Integrity
Pour
Best
Angel
Deceiving
Sinn
Firsts
Devil
Wretched
Perchance
Play
Sin
Angels
Understandings
First
Lose
Beast
Sponges
Men
Loses
Receive
Devils

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The rich have no more of the kingdom of heaven than they have purchased of the poor by their alms.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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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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Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.
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As he that fears God fears nothing else, so he that sees God sees everything else.
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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned alas why should I be?
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
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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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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.
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Great sorrows cannot speak.
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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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This Extasie doth unperplex (We said) and tell us what we love, Wee see by this, it was not sexe, Wee see, we saw not what did move: But as all severall soules contain Mixture of things, they know not what, Love, these mixt souls, doth mixe againe. Loves mysteries in soules doe grow, But yet the body is his booke.
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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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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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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it and made fit for God.
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