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Here we may reign secure and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell: Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Though
Secure
Heaven
Serve
May
Ambition
Better
Choice
Worth
Crazy
Hell
Reign
Choices
Mad

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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.
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Tis chastity, my brother, chastity She that has that is clad in complete steel, And, like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen, May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, No savage fierce, bandite, or mountaineer, Will dare to soil her virgin purity.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.
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Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do.
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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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And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe!
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Indu'd With sanctity of reason.
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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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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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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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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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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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I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
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Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
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Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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