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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
Wealth
Bane
Hell
Riches
Grows
Precious
May
Soil
Best
Admire
None
Deserve
Grow

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By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies.
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Danger will wink on opportunity.
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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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Each tree Laden with fairest fruit, that hung to th' eye Tempting, stirr'd in me sudden appetite To pluck and eat.
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit/Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste/Brought death into the world, and all our woe,/With loss of Eden, till one greater Man/Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,/Sing heavenly muse
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Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve The faith they owe when earnestly they seek Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.
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Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
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The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks, Safest and seemliest by her husband stays, Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
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Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.
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And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
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