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.

We are all conceived in close prison; in our mothers wombs, we are close prisoners all; when we are born, we are born but to the liberty of the house; prisoners still, though within larger walls; and then all our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.

How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be.

Death is an ascension to a better library.

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.

I shall die reading; since my book and a grave are so near.