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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.

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
Every
Jaws
Benefactors
Hook
Benefit
Sticks
Draws
Benefits
Benefactor
Takes
Whither

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But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
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I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in, and invite God, and his Angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his Angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.
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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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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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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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It is too little to call man a little world Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.
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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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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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Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?
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My love though silly is more brave.
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The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.
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To be no part of any body, is to be nothing.
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Between these two, the denying of sins, which we have done, and the bragging of sins, which we have not done, what a space, what a compass is there, for millions of millions of sins!
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Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
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I will not look upon the quickening sun, But straight her beauty to my sense shall run The air shall note her soft, the fire most pure Water suggest her clear, and the earth sure Time shall not lose our passages.
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
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Friends are ourselves.
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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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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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To an incompetent judge I must not lie, but I may be silent to a competent I must answer.
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