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How gladly would I meet mortality, my sentence, and be earth in sensible! How glad would lay me down, as in my mother's lap! There I should rest, and sleep secure.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Dying
Mortality
Rest
Sentence
Sleep
Sensible
Death
Sentences
Mother
Lays
Earth
Secure
Gladly
Would
Glad
Gladness
Meet
Lap

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And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs.
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God, who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through their habitations walks To mark their doings.
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For books are as meats and viands are some of good, some of evil sub-stance.
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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It is for homely features to keep home,- They had their name thence coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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They are the troublers, they are the dividers of unity, who neglect and don't permit others to unite those dissevered pieces which are yet wanting to the body of Truth.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.
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It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
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With eyes Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd. Imparadised in one another's arms. With thee conversing I forget all time. And feel that I am happier than I know.
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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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So little knows Any, but God alone, but perverts best things To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
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Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.
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Heav'nly love shall outdoo Hellish hate
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