John Donne Quotes
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He must pull out his own eyes, and see no creature, before he can say, he sees no God; He must be no man, and quench his reasonable soul, before he can say to himself, there is no God.
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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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I know not what fear is, nor I know not what it is that I fear now; I fear not the hastening of my death, and yet I do fear the increase of the disease... my weakness is from nature, who hath but her measure, my strength is from God, who possesses and distributes infinitely.
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A bracelet of bright hair about the bone.
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The heavens rejoice in motion, why should I Abjure my so much loved variety.
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No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.
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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
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Pleasure is none, if not diversified.
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But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space.
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Variable, and therefore miserable condition of man; this minute I was well, and am ill, this minute.
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At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattred bodies go.
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Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.
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Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.
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The world's whole sap is sunk: The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interred; yet all these seem to laugh, Compared with me, who am their epitaph.
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Our two souls therefore which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat.
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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 feigned deaths to die.
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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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Ah cannot we As well as cocks and lions jocund be, After such pleasures?
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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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?