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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Torment
Length
Elements
Become
Also
May
Time
Torments

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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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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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Now came still evening on and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied for beast and bird, They to they grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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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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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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Here the great art lies, to discern in what the law is to be to restraint and punishment, and in what things persuasion only is to work.
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Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
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Therefore God's universal law Gave to the man despotic power Over his female in due awe, Not from that right to part an hour, Smile she or lour.
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Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
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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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For so I created them free and free they must remain.
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The spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.
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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
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Necessity and chance Approach not me, and what I will is fate.
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