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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Spirit
Raises
Spur
Live
Delight
Infirmity
Mind
Noble
Spurs
Fame
Delights
Days
Doth
Clear
Scorn
Lasts
Raise
Shears
Last
Reputation
Laborious

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Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.
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And now without redemption all mankind Must have been lost, adjudged to death and hell By doom severe.
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Therefore God's universal law Gave to the man despotic power Over his female in due awe, Not from that right to part an hour, Smile she or lour.
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Where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes, That comes to all.
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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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Be lowly wise: Think only what concerns thee and thy being.
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And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.
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What reinforcement we may gain from hope If not, what resolution from despair.
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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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Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.
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Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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Then might ye see Cowls, hoods, and habits with their wearers tost And flutter'd into rags then reliques, beads, Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, The sport of winds all these upwhirl'd aloft Fly to the rearward of the world far off Into a limbo large and broad, since called The paradise of fools.
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Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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