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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Ruins
Confusion
Worse
Upon
Rout
Confounded
Confusing
Ruin

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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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The spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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Evil, be thou my good.
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O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
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Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.
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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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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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If weakness may excuse, What murderer, what traitor, parricide, Incestuous, sacrilegious, but may plead it? All wickedness is weakness that plea, therefore, With God or man will gain thee no remission.
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Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
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The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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None But such as are good men can give good things, And that which is not good, is not delicious To a well-govern'd and wise appetite.
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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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And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.
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