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Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh to lose thee were to lose myself.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Thee
Lose
Loses
State
Cannot
States
Severed
Flesh

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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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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny for no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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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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Behold now this vast city [London] a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection.
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The end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the nearest by possessing our souls of true virtue, which being united to the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection.
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These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.
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Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowy expiations weak.
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Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
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His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.
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Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
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Luck is the residue of design.
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My sentence is for open war.
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Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blamed enough elsewhere, but strive, In offices of love, how we may lighten each other's burden.
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And to thy husband's will Thine shall submit he over thee shall rule.
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