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

One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

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.

Away thou fondling motley humorist,
Leave mee, and in this standing woodden chest,
Consorted with these few bookes, let me lye
In prison, and here be coffin'd, when I dye;
Here are Gods conduits, grave Divines; and here
Natures Secretary, the Philosopher;
And jolly Statesmen, which teach how to tie
The sinewes of a cities mistique bodie;
Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them stand
Giddie fantastique Poets of each land.
Shall I leave all this constant company,
And follow headlong, wild uncertaine thee?