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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Arts
Eye
Mother
Athenians
Art
Oratory
Athens
Eloquence
Greece
Motherhood

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Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.
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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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For the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.
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God shall be all in all.
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His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
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But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began.
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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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Nor love thy life, nor hate but what thou livest, Live well how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
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Th'invention all admir'd, and each, how he to be th'inventor miss'd so easy it seem'd once found, which yet unfound most would have thought impossible.
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Angels contented with their face in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
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Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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O madness to think use of strongest wines And strongest drinks our chief support of health, When God with these forbidden made choice to rear His mighty champion, strong above compare, Whose drink was only from the liquid brook.
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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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Lords are lordliest in their wine.
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With thee conversing I forget all time.
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Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss
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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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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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