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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Men
Mould
Maker
Request
Clay
Promote
Makers
Thee
Epigraphs
Darkness
Solicit

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Yet much remains To conquer still peace hath her victories No less renowned then war, new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.
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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
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He who tempts, though in vain, at last asperses The tempted with dishonor foul, supposed Not incorruptible of faith, not proof Against temptation.
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Then might ye see Cowls, hoods, and habits with their wearers tost And flutter'd into rags then reliques, beads, Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, The sport of winds all these upwhirl'd aloft Fly to the rearward of the world far off Into a limbo large and broad, since called The paradise of fools.
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Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.
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Time, though in Eternity, applied To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future.
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A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond / Frightened the reign of Chaos and old Night.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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The virtuous mind that ever walks attended By a strong siding champion, Conscience.
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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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What boots it at one gate to make defence, And at another to let in the foe?
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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This is servitude, To serve th'unwise, or him who hath rebelled Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee, Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled.
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Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.
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Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.
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Heaven Is as the Book of God before thee set, Wherein to read His wondrous works.
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Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav'n.
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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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Let us seek Death, or he not found, supply With our own hands his office on ourselves Why stand we longer shivering under fears, That show no end but death, and have the power, Of many ways to die the shortest choosing, Destruction with destruction to destroy.
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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
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