John Donne Quotes (169 Quotes)

So, if I dream I have you, For, all our joys are but fantastical.

The book has been kind of a long time in coming. I've been writing since high school and this is my first book and it's kind of drawn from poems written over an extended period.

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.

And when a whirl-winde hath blowne the dust of the Churchyard into the Church, and man sweeps out the dust of the Church into the Church-yard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble flower, and this the yeomanly, this the Plebian bran.

I am a little world made cunningly of Elements, and an Angelic sprite.

I do not love a man, except I hate his vices, because those vices are the enemies, and the destruction of that friend whom I love.

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.

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

Just such disparity As is 'twixt Air and Angles' purity 'Twixt women's love and men's will every be'.

Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.

Love was as subtly caught, as a disease But being got it is a treasure sweet, which to defend is harder than to get And ought not be profaned on either part, for though 'Tis got by chance, 'Tis kept by art.

The day breaks not, it is my heart.

But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.

Art is the most passionate orgy within man's grasp.

For good and evil in our actions meet wicked is not much worse than indiscreet

Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes

It is too little to call man a little world Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.