John Donne (/dʌn/ DUN; 22 January 1572 – 31 March 1631) was an English poet and cleric in the Church of England.
Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were
There is in every miracle a silent chiding of the world, and a tacit reprehension of them who require, or who need miracles.
Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
The flea, though he kill none, he does all the harm he can.
Filled with her love, may I be rather grown Mad with much heart, then idiot with none.
God made sun and moon to distinguish the seasons, and day and night; and we cannot have the fruits of the earth but in their seasons. But God hath made no decrees to distinguish the seasons of His mercies. In Paradise the fruits were ripe the first minute, and in heaven it is always autumn. His mercies are ever in their maturity.
In best understandings, sin began, Angels sinned first, then Devils, and then Man.
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.
Love is strong as death; but nothing else is as strong as either; and both, love and death, met in Christ. How strong and powerful upon you, then, should that instruction be, that comes to you from both these, the love and death of Jesus Christ!
Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.
Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.
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?
My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
And new philosophy calls all in doubt, The element of fire is quite put out; The sun is lost, and the earth, and no man's wit Can well direct him where to look for it. And freely men confess that this world's spent, When in the planets, and the firmament They seek so many new; then see that this Is crumbled out again to his atomies. 'Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone; All just supply, and all relation: Prince, subject, Father, Son, are things forgot.
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.
Sleep is pain's easiest salve