Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe, For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest … Continue reading ‘Death, be not proud’ by John Donne
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den? ‘Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, ’twas but … Continue reading ‘The good morrow’ by John Donne
Marke but this flea, and marke in this, How little that which thou deny’st me is; It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea, out two bloods mingled bee; Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sinne, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoyes before it wooe, And … Continue reading “The Flea” by John Donne