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Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Grow
Grows
Hate
True
Pierced
Never
Lucifer
Deadly
Wounds
Deep

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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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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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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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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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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?
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Lords are lordliest in their wine.
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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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The planets in their station list'ning stood.
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Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.
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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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It is Chastity, my brother. She that has that is clad in complete steel.
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Where no hope is left, is left no fear.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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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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Nor love thy life, nor hate but what thou livest, Live well how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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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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