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Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

John Dryden
17th-century English poet and playwright
Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

John Donne
English poet and cleric (1572–1631)
For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

John Donne
English poet and cleric (1572–1631)
The heavens rejoice in motion, why should I Abjure my so much loved variety.

John Donne
English poet and cleric (1572–1631)
We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms; As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.

John Donne
English poet and cleric (1572–1631)
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?

John Donne
English poet and cleric (1572–1631)
The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.

John Donne
English poet and cleric (1572–1631)
All Kings, and all their favorites, All glory of honors, beauties, wits, The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass, Is elder by a year, now, than it was When thou and I first one another saw: All other things, to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay; This, no tomorrow hash, nor yesterday, Running, it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

John Donne
English poet and cleric (1572–1631)
Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.

John Donne
English poet and cleric (1572–1631)
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

John Donne
English poet and cleric (1572–1631)
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