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Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.

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
Men
Heavens
Hath
Heaven
Upon

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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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If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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When I died last, and, Dear, I die As often as from thee I go Though it be but an hour ago, And lovers' hours be full eternity.
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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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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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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.
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Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.
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Nature hath no goal though she hath law.
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And when a whirl-winde hath blowne the dust of the Churchyard into the Church, and man sweeps out the dust of the Church into the Church-yard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble flower, and this the yeomanly, this the Plebian bran.
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I shall not live 'till I see God and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
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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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There is no health physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.
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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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Kind pity chokes my spleen.
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O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!
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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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