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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
Walks
Hides
Within
Foul
Dark
Breast
Clear
Centre
Enjoy
Breasts
Benighted
Light
Bright
Dungeon
May
Sun
Bustle
Soul
Thoughts
Dungeons

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The planets in their station list'ning stood.
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Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all but torture without end.
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O why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest heav'n With Spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men as angels without feminine, Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
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Earth felt the wound and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.
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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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Yet much remains To conquer still peace hath her victories No less renowned then war, new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.
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Where shame is, there is also fear.
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Thy actions to thy words accord thy words To thy large heart give utterance due thy heart Contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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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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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
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