John Donne Quotes
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below. O, my America, my Newfoundland My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd, My mine of precious stones, my empery; How am I blest in thus discovering thee ! To enter in these bonds, is to be free ; Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.'
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Ah cannot we As well as cocks and lions jocund be, After such pleasures?
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Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.
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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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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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I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the god of love was born.
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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes, upon one double string; So to entergraft our hands, as yet Was all the means to make us one, And pictures in our eyes to get Was all our propagation.
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But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space.
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Man, who is the noblest part of the earth, melts so away as if he were a statue, not of earth, but of snow.
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She is all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is.
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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I am two fools, I know, for loving, and for saying so in whining poetry.
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When God's hand is bent to strike, it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God; but to fall out of the hands of the living God is a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination.
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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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God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.
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Reason is our soul's left hand, faith her right.
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Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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We understood Her by her sight; her pure, and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say, her body thought.
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And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.