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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Crow
Stood
Awful
Goodness
Devil
Felt

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With thee conversing I forget all time.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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Nor love thy life, nor hate but what thou livest, Live well how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
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Day and night, Seed-time and harvest, heat and hoary frost Shall hold their course, till fire purge all things new.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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Hell has no benefits, only torture.
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In discourse more sweet For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
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Nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study household good, And good works in her husband to promote.
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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
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O visions ill foreseen! Better had I Liv'd ignorant of future, so had borne My part of evil only.
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And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
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Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, Covering the earth with odours, fruits, flocks, Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, But all to please and sate the curious taste?
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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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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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Nor think thou with wind Of æry threats to awe whom yet with deeds Thou canst not.
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To overcome in battle, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human glory.
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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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