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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.

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
Bred
Diseases
Lust
Thee
Disease

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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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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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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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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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If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
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As God loves a cheerful giver, so he also loves a cheerful taker. Who takes hold of his gifts with a glad heart.
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Full nakedness! All my joys are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, to taste whole joys.
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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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Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.
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Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more Death, thou shalt die.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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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's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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I am a little world made cunningly.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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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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