John Donne

I am two fools, I know, for loving and saying so.

I am two fools, I know, for loving and saying so.

Never propose to thy self such a God, as thou wert not bound to imitate: Thou mistakest God, if thou read more

Never propose to thy self such a God, as thou wert not bound to imitate: Thou mistakest God, if thou make him to be any such thing, or make him to do any such thing, as thou in thy proportion shouldst not be, or shouldst not do. And shouldst thou curse any man that had never offended, never transgrest, never trespass thee? Can God have done so? Will God curse man, before man have sinned?

Feast of John and Charles Wesley, Priests, Poets, Teachers, 1791 & 1788 He was but a heathen that said, read more

Feast of John and Charles Wesley, Priests, Poets, Teachers, 1791 & 1788 He was but a heathen that said, If God love a man, He takes him young out of this world; and they were but heathens, that observed that custom. to put on mourning when their sons were born, and to feast and triumph when they died. But thus much may we learn from these heathens, that if the dead, and we, be not upon one floor, nor under one story, yet we are under one roof. We think not a friend lost, because he has gone into another room, nor because he has gone into another land: and into another world, no man has gone; for that Heaven, which God created, and this world, is all one world... I spend none of my faith, I exercise none of my hope, in this, that I shall have my dead raised to life again. This is the faith that sustains me, when I lose by the death of others, or when I suffer by living in misery myself: that the dead and we are now all in one Church, and at the resurrection, shall be all in one Choir.

Commemoration of John Donne, Priest, Poet, 1631 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, read more

Commemoration of John Donne, Priest, Poet, 1631 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. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die.

When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.

When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.