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This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, our great redemption from above did bring.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Heaven
Month
Wedded
Happy
Christmas
Morn
Born
King
Maid
Mother
Son
Wherein
Great
Kings
Maids
Eternal
Virgin
Months
Virgins
Bring
Redemption

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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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As therefore the state of man now is, what wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbear, without the knowledge of good and evil?
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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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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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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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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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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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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Angels contented with their face in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
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But infinite in pardon is my Judge.
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Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.
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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
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Hell has no benefits, only torture.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
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Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half
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