John Donne Poem

The Confessors

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  Therefore with Thee triumpheth there 
A virgin squadron of white confessors, 
  Whose bloods betroth’d not married were, 
Tender’d, not taken by those ravishers. 
              They know, and pray that we may know, 
              In every Christian 
Hourly tempestuous persecutions grow ; 
Temptations martyr us alive ; a man 
Is to himself a Diocletian. 

The Doctors
The Virgins

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