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Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Though
Back
Firsts
Recoils
First
Recoil
Long
Bitterness
Revenge
Bitter
Sweet

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But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
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Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.
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... then there was war in heaven. But it was not angels. It was that small golden zeppelin, like a long oval world, high up. It seemed as if the cosmic order were gone, as if there had come a new order, a new heavens above us: and as if the world in anger were trying to revoke it.
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Who can in reason then or right assume monarchy over such as live by right his equals, if in power or splendor less, in freedom equal?
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Witness this new-made world, another Heav'n From Heaven Gate not farr, founded in view On the clear Hyaline, the Glassie Sea Of amplitude almost immense, with Starr's Numerous, and every Starr perhaps a world Of destined habitation.
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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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When language in common use in any country becomes irregular and depraved, it is followed by their ruin and degradation. For what do terms used without skill or meaning, which are at once corrupt and misapplied, denote but a people listless, supine, and ripe for servitude?
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Nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study household good, And good works in her husband to promote.
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon.
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Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav'n.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.
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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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Come and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toe.
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Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.
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The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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