John Donne

Commemoration of John Donne, Priest, Poet, 1631 You rob, and spoile, and eat his people as bread, by Extortion, read more

Commemoration of John Donne, Priest, Poet, 1631 You rob, and spoile, and eat his people as bread, by Extortion, and bribery, and deceitful waights and measures, and deluding oathes in buying and selling, and then come hither, and so make God your Receiver, and his house a den of Thieves. His house is Sanctum Sanctorum, The holiest of holies, and you make it onely Sanctuarium: It should be a place sanctified by your devotions, and you make it onely a Sanctuary to priviledge Maelfactors, a place that may redeeme you from the ill opinion of men, who must in charity be bound to thinke well of you, because they see you in here.

When I died last, and, Dear, I die as often as from thee I go though it be but an read more

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.

To be no part of any body, is to be nothing.

To be no part of any body, is to be nothing.

Concluding a short series on authenticity: Think thyself at that Tribunal, that judgment, now: Where thou shalt not read more

Concluding a short series on authenticity: Think thyself at that Tribunal, that judgment, now: Where thou shalt not only hear all thy sinful works, and words, and thoughts repeated, which thou thy self hadst utterly forgot, but thou shalt hear thy good works, thine alms, thy coming to Church, thy hearing of Sermons, given in evidence against thee, because they had hypocrisy mingled in them; yea, thou shalt find even thy repentance to condemn thee, because thou madest that but a door to a relapse.

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.