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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
Diseases
Lust
Thee
Disease
Bred

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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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There is hook in every benefit, that sticks in his jaws that takes that benefit, and draws him whither the benefactor will.
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My love though silly is more brave.
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And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.
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The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.
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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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O Lord, never suffer us to think that we can stand by ourselves, and not need thee.
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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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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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The day breaks not, it is my heart.
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To an incompetent judge I must not lie, but I may be silent to a competent I must answer.
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I would not that death should take me asleep. I would not have him merely seize me, and only declare me to be dead, but win me, and overcome me. When I must shipwreck, I would do it in a sea, where mine impotency might have some excuse not in a sullen weedy lake, where I could not have so much as exercise for my swimming.
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Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee.
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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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Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.
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When God's hand is bent to strike, it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God but to fall out of the hands of the living God is a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination.
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
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In heaven it is always autumn.
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