More about John Donne
John Donne -
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Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men.
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.
For I am every dead thing,
In whom love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness
He ruined me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.
Oh do not die, for I shall hate
All women so, when thou art gone.
My God, my God, thou art a direct God, may I not say a literal God, a God that wouldst be understood literally and according to the plain sense of all that thou sayest? But thou art also…a figurative, a metaphorical God too.
Let me arrest thy thoughts; wonder with me, why plowing, building, ruling and the rest, or most of those arts, whence our lives are blest, by cursed Cain's race invented be, and blest Seth vexed us with Astronomy.
Women are like the arts, forced unto none, Open to all searchers, unprized, if unknown.
Quote of the day
Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.
January 22, 1572
March 31, 1631
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Remarkable Last Words (or Near-Last Words)
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