More about John Donne
John Donne -
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Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men.
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthral me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
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.
If poisonous minerals, and if that tree,
Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us,
If lecherous goats, if serpents envious
Cannot be damned; alas; why should I be?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements, and an angelic sprite.
Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend.
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go.
Thou'rt 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.
Show me, dear Christ, Thy spouse, so bright and clear.
Quote of the day
The fear of burglars is not only the fear of being robbed, but also the fear of a sudden and unexpected clutch out of the darkness.
January 22, 1572
March 31, 1631
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