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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Excessive
Evils
Patience
Misery
Worst
Perfect
Evil
Pain
Overturns

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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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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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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
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Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
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And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
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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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The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.
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The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.
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When we speak of knowing God, it must be understood with reference to man's limited powers of comprehension. God, as He really is, is far beyond man's imagination, let alone understanding. God has revealed only so much of Himself as our minds can conceive and the weakness of our nature can bear.
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Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
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Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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Satan so call him now, his former name Is heard no more in heaven.
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But that from us aught should ascend to Heav'n So prevalent as to concern the mind Of God, high-bless'd, or to incline His will, Hard to belief may seem yet this will prayer.
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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