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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Grows
Precious
May
Soil
Best
Admire
None
Deserve
Grow
Wealth
Bane
Hell
Riches

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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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To live a life half dead, a living death.
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Hail, wedded love, mysterious law true source of human happiness.
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Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do.
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And to thy husband's will Thine shall submit he over thee shall rule.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
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Servant of God, well done! well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintain'd Against revolted multitudes the cause of truth.
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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
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The teachers of our law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
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O why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest heav'n With Spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men as angels without feminine, Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.
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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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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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