John Donne

Thy flattering picture, Phryne, is like thee, Only in this, that you both painted be.

If in his study he hath so much care To hang all old strange things, let his wife beware.

On a huge hill, Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and hee that will Reach her, about must, and about must goe; And what the hills suddenness resists, winne so; Yet strive so, that before age, deaths twilight, Thy Soule rest, for none can …

Though Truth and Falsehood be Near twins, yet Truth a little elder is.

Kind pity chokes my spleen.

For if one eat my meat, though it be known The meat was mine, th'excrement is his own.

Shall I leave all this constant company, And follow headlong, wild uncertain thee?

Show me, dear Christ, Thy spouse, so bright and clear.

Take me to you, imprison me, for I Except you enthral me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend.

What if this present were the world's last night?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

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.

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?

All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go.

I am a little world made cunningly Of elements, and an angelic sprite.

Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee, As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, To taste whole joys.

Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below. O, my America, my Newfoundland My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd, My mine of precious stones, my empery; How am I blest in thus discovering thee!

We easily know By this these angels from an evil sprite, They set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

The straight Hellespont between The Sestos and Abydos of her breasts Not of two lovers, but two loves the nests.

Who ever loves, if he do not propose The right true end of love, he's one that goes To sea for nothing but to make him sick.

Nurse, O! my love is slain; I saw him go O'er the white Alps alone; I saw him, I, Assail'd, fight, taken, stabb'd, bleed, fall, and die.