John Donne

This bed thy centre is, these walls thy sphere.

She is all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.

Busy old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school-boys and sour 'prentices,

Virtue has some perverseness, for she will Neither believe her good, nor others' ill.

To roam Giddily and be everywhere, but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.

Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfill All offices of death, except to kill.

From this I testify her holy cheerfulness, and religious alacrity, (one of the best evidences of a good conscience), that as she came to this place, God’s house of Prayer...she ever hastened her family, and her company hither, with that …

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

Since I am coming to that holy room, Where, with thy choir of saints forevermore, I shall be made thy music; as I come I tune the instrument here at the door, And what I must do then, think here before.

To see God only, I go out of sight; And to escape stormy days, I choose An everlasting night.

Seal then this bill of my divorce to all.

As Thou Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now; Thou lovest not, till from loving more Thou free My soul; Who ever gives, takes liberty; Oh, if Thou carest not whom I love, Alas! Thou lovest not me.

The maskers come late, and I think will stay, Like fairies, till the cock crow them away.

The lyric lark, and the grave whispering dove, The sparrow that neglects his life for love, The household bird with the red stomacher.

Hail Bishop Valentine, whose day this is; All the air is thy diocese.

We understood Her by her sight; her pure, and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say, her body thought.

Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say, her body thought.

Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom, Which brings a taper to the outward room.

For good or evil must in our actions meet; Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.

There is no health; physicians say, that we At best enjoy but a neutrality.

She, she is dead; she’s dead; when thou know’st this, Thou know’st how dry a cinder this world is.

Clothed in her virgin white integrity.

Immensity, cloister'd in thy dear womb, Now leaves His well-beloved imprisonment.

Friends are ourselves.