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.

I am a little world made cunningly.

That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.

Men perish with whispering sins-nay, with silent sins, sins that never tell the conscience that they are sins, as often with crying sins; and in hell there shall meet as many men that never thought what was sin, as that spent all their thoughts in the compassing of sin.

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love.

I neglect God and his angles for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.

Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?