Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
John DonneLove, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
John DonneMan hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
John DonneLove, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
John Donne