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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Satan
Paradise
Serve
Hell
War
Belial
Lost
Heav
Death
Satanism
Better
Reign

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So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.
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All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.
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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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Eloquence the soul, song charms the senses.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
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Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
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... then there was war in heaven. But it was not angels. It was that small golden zeppelin, like a long oval world, high up. It seemed as if the cosmic order were gone, as if there had come a new order, a new heavens above us: and as if the world in anger were trying to revoke it.
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Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowy expiations weak.
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But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light.
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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