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He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun Himself his own dungeon.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Within
Foul
Dark
Breast
Clear
Centre
Enjoy
Breasts
Benighted
Light
Bright
Dungeon
May
Sun
Bustle
Soul
Thoughts
Dungeons
Walks
Hides

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Believe and be confirmed.
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I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
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How oft, in nations gone corrupt, And by their own devices brought down to servitude, That man chooses bondage before liberty. Bondage with ease before strenuous liberty.
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Each tree Laden with fairest fruit, that hung to th' eye Tempting, stirr'd in me sudden appetite To pluck and eat.
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O when meet now Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
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Solitude sometimes is best society.
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The strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastic toe.
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Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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A boundless continent, Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of night Starless expos'd.
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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
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There is no Christian duty that is not to be seasoned and set off with cheerishness, which in a thousand outward and intermitting crosses may yet be done well, as in this vale of tears.
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Heaven Is as the Book of God before thee set, Wherein to read His wondrous works.
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