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My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.

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
Parts
Dies
Must
World

More quotes by John Donne

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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
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Great sorrows cannot speak.
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And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, the element of fire is quite put out the Sun is lost, and the earth, and no mans wit can well direct him where to look for it.
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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Who are a little wise the best fools be.
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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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Commemoration of Pandita Mary Ramabai, Translator of the Scriptures, 1922 A memory of yesterday's pleasures, a fear of tomorrow's dangers, a straw under my knees, a noise in my ear, a light in my eye, an anything, a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayers.
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If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two, Thy soul the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do.
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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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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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O Lord, never suffer us to think that we can stand by ourselves, and not need thee.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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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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But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
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How many times go we to comedies, to masques, to places of great and noble resort, nay even to church only to see the company.
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Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.
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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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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.
John Donne