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Luck is the residue of design.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Humorous
Luck
Design
War
Life
Residue
Witty

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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.
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No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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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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O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
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Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.
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Ornate rhetorick taught out of the rule of Plato.... To which poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less suttle and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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We read not that Christ ever exercised force but once and that was to drive profane ones out of his Temple, not to force them in.
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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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How gladly would I meet mortality, my sentence, and be earth in sensible! How glad would lay me down, as in my mother's lap! There I should rest, and sleep secure.
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Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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