If We Consider Eternity, Into That Time

There Is In Every Miracle A Silent Chiding Of The World, And A Tacit Reprehension Of Them Who Require, Or Who Need Miracles.

Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And This Net Throwne Upon The Heavens, And Now They Are His Own.

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.

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.

To An Incompetent Judge I Must Not Lie, But I May Be Silent; To A Competent I Must Answer.