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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
Hook
Benefit
Sticks
Draws
Benefits
Benefactor
Takes
Whither
Every
Jaws
Benefactors

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What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?
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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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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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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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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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we give each other a smile with a future in it
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The difference between the reason of man and the instinct of the beast is this, that the beast does but know, but the man knows that he knows.
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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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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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Nature hath no goal though she hath law.
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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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Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
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This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.
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That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.
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Let me arrest thy thoughts, wonder with me, Why ploughing, building, ruling and the rest, Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blessed, By cursed Cain's race invented be, And blessed Seth vexed us with astronomy.
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If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.
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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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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
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