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Kind pity chokes my spleen.

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
Spleen
Choke
Pity
Kind
Chokes

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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.
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When my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive tread upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.
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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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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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Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
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A man that is not afraid of a Lion is afraid of a Cat .
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When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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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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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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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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Friends are ourselves.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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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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