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So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Love
Life
Deaths
Boyfriend
Endure
Dear
Live
Without

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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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But God himself is truth in propagating which, as men display a greater integrity and zeal, they approach nearer to the similitude of God, and possess a greater portion of his love.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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Subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, Right reason for their law.
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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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Who can in reason then or right assume monarchy over such as live by right his equals, if in power or splendor less, in freedom equal?
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Such joy ambition finds.
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How oft, in nations gone corrupt, And by their own devices brought down to servitude, That man chooses bondage before liberty. Bondage with ease before strenuous liberty.
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Luck is the residue of design.
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Let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live.
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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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Danger will wink on opportunity.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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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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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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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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