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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Touch
Impossible
Inspirational
Truth
Sunbeam
Soiled
Sunbeams
Outward

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To overcome in battle, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human glory.
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Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
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I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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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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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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Fear of change perplexes monarchs.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness.
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Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.
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Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
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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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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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