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Myself, and all the Angelic Host, that stand in the sight of God enthroned, our happy state hold, as you yours, while our obedience hold. On other surety none: freely we serve, because we freely love.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Happy
Obedience
States
Serve
Love
Angel
None
Enthroned
Sight
Surety
Hold
Angelic
Stand
Freely
State
Host

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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond / Frightened the reign of Chaos and old Night.
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Subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, Right reason for their law.
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Dark with excessive bright.
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Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.
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This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.
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I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs By the known rules of ancient liberty, When straight a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
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Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
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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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That space the Evil One abstracted stood From his own evil, and for the time remained Stupidly good, of enmity disarmed, Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge .
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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And to thy husband's will Thine shall submit he over thee shall rule.
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The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character thereby.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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Our cure, to be no more sad cure!
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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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Infinity is a dark illimitable ocean, without bound.
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