I would not that death should take me asleep. I would not have him merely same me, and only declare me to be dead, but win me, and overcome me. When I must shipwreck, I would do it in a Sea, where mine impotence might have some excuse; not in a sullen weedy lake, where I could not have so much as exercise for my swimming.

— John Donne

Keep us Lord so awake in the duties of our calling that we may sleep in thy peace and wake in thy glory.

— John Donne

License my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.

— John Donne

Love all love of other sights controls. And makes one little room an everywhere.

— John Donne

Love built on beauty soon as beauty dies.

— John Donne

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

— John Donne

Love, built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

— John Donne

Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

— John Donne

Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou denies me is; Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and me, and this Our marriage bed and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, we are met, And cloister in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me, Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.

— John Donne

Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore My love was infinite, if spring makes it more.

— John Donne