Other men's crosses are not my crosses.
Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were
Commemoration of John Donne, Priest, Poet, 1631 He was the Word that spake it; He took the bread and brake it; And what that Word did make it I do believe, and take it.
My love though silly is more brave.
Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.