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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
World
Parts
Dies
Must

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Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
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Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.
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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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The sun must not set upon anger, much less will I let the sun set upon the anger of God towards me.
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Who are a little wise the best fools be.
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But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
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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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Let man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this, The intelligence that moves, devotion is.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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Friends are ourselves.
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There is no health physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.
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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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At most, the greatest persons are but great wens, and excrescences men of wit and delightful conversation, but as morals for ornament, except they be so incorporated into the body of the world that they contribute something to the sustentation of the whole.
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The flea, though he kill none, he does all the harm he can.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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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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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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And when a whirl-winde hath blowne the dust of the Churchyard into the Church, and man sweeps out the dust of the Church into the Church-yard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble flower, and this the yeomanly, this the Plebian bran.
John Donne