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It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Wisdom
Inherit
Winning
Wit
Woman
Merit
Hard
Shape
Long
Shapes
Love
Harder
Life
Strength
Virtue
Valour

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It is Chastity, my brother. She that has that is clad in complete steel.
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Nor think thou with wind Of æry threats to awe whom yet with deeds Thou canst not.
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Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav'n.
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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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His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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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?
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Oh, shame to men! devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.
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All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.
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Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round
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If at great things thou would'st arrive, Get riches first, get wealth, and treasure heap, Not difficult, if thou hearken to me Riches are mine, fortune is in my hand, They whom I favor thrive in wealth amain, While virtue, valor, wisdom, sit in want.
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Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
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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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Fairy damsels met in forest wide / By knights of Logres, or of Lyones, / Lancelot or Pelleas, or Pellenore.
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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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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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Ah gentle pair, ye little think how nigh Your change approaches, when all these delights Will vanish and deliver ye to woe, More woe, the more your taste is now of joy.
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blamed enough elsewhere, but strive, In offices of love, how we may lighten each other's burden.
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