Quote

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?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Pain
Eternity
Swallowed
Lost
Intellectual
Perish
Sense
Thoughts
Womb
Night
Lose
Cure
Ends
Loses
Motion
Must
Full
Cures
Would
Though
Wander
Uncreated
Rather
Wide
Devoid

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Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it others neither have nor deserve it some have it, not deserving it others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.
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The virtuous mind that ever walks attended By a strong siding champion, Conscience.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.
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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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Angels contented with their face in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
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Temper justice with mercy.
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.
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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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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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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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