Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419750" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On The Progress Of The Soul...</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Forget this rotten world, and unto thee<br> Let thine own times as an old story be.<br> Be not concern'd; study not why, nor when;<br> Do not so much as not believe a man.<br> For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth<br> Is far more business than this world is worth.<br> I'he world is but a carcass; thou art fed<br> By it, but as a worm, that carcass bred;<br> And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more,<br> When this world will grow better than before,<br> Than those thy fellow-worms do think upon<br> That carcass's last resurrection?<br> Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,<br> As of old clothes, cast off a year ago.<br> To be thus stupid is alacrity;<br> Men thus lethargic have best memory.<br> Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state<br> We now lament not, but congratulate.<br> She, to whom all this world was but a stage,<br> Where all sat heark'ning how her youthful age<br> Should be employ'd, because in all she did<br> Some figure of the golden times was hid.<br> Who could not lack, what'er this world could give,<br> Because she was the form, that made it live;<br> Nor could complain that this world was unfit<br> To be stay'd in, then when she was in it;<br> She, that first tried indifferent desires<br> By virtue, and virtue by religious fires;<br> She, to whose person paradise adher'd,<br> As courts to princes; she, whose eyes enspher'd<br> Star-light enough t' have made the South control,<br> (Had she been there) the star-full Northern Pole;<br> She, she is gone; she is gone; when thou knowest this,<br> What fragmentary rubbish this world is<br> Thou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought;<br> He honours it too much that thinks it nought.<br> Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom,<br> Which brings a taper to the outward room,<br> Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light,<br> And after brings it nearer to thy sight;<br> For such approaches doth heaven make in death.<br> Think thyself labouring now with broken breath,<br> And think those broken and soft notes to be<br> Division, and thy happiest harmony.<br> Think thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slack,<br> And think that but unbinding of a pack,<br> To take one precious thing, thy soul, from thence.<br> Think thyself parch'd with fever's violence;<br> Anger thine ague more, by calling it<br> Thy physic; chide the slackness of the fit.<br> Think that thou hear'st thy knell, and think no more,<br> But that, as bells call'd thee to church before,<br> So this to the Triumphant Church calls thee.<br> Think Satan's sergeants round about thee be,<br> And think that but for legacies they thrust;<br> Give one thy pride, to'another give thy lust;<br> Give them those sins which they gave thee before,<br> And trust th' immaculate blood to wash thy score.<br> Think thy friends weeping round, and think that they<br> Weep but because they go not yet thy way.<br> Think that they close thine eyes, and think in this,<br> That they confess much in the world amiss,<br> Who dare not trust a dead man's eye with that<br> Which they from God and angels cover not.<br> Think that they shroud thee up, and think from thence<br> They reinvest thee in white innocence.<br> Think that thy body rots, and (if so low,<br> Thy soul exalted so, thy thoughts can go)<br> Think thee a prince, who of themselves create<br> Worms, which insensibly devour their state.<br> Think that they bury thee, and think that rite<br> Lays thee to sleep but a Saint Lucy's night.<br>....</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Donne">John Donne</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419750" data-title="On The Progress Of The Soul... de John Donne" data-description="Forget this rotten world, and unto thee
 Let thine own times as an old story be.
 Be not concern'd; study not why, nor when;
 Do not so much as not believe a man.
 For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth
 Is far more business than this wo..."></div>
</div>
</div>