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Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Arise
Fall
Ever
Lucifer
Awake

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Prudence is the virtue by which we discern what is proper to do under various circumstances in time and place.
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Meanwhile the Adversary of God and man, Satan with thoughts inflamed of highest design, Puts on swift wings, and towards the gates of hell Explores his solitary flight.
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O when meet now Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
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Knowledge forbidden? Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord Envy them that? Can it be sin to know, Can it be death? And do they only stand By ignorance? Is that their happy state, The proof of their obedience and their faith? O fair foundation laid whereon to build Their ruin!
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Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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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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The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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This horror will grow mild, this darkness light Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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