Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?

Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.

Who are a little wise the best fools be.

We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms; As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.

God is so omnipresent. . . . God is an angel in an angel, and a stone in a stone, and a straw in a straw.

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

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.