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No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Freedom
Free
Aught
Born
Magistrates
Reality
Ethos
Men
Naturally
Deny
Stupid
Liberty

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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it others neither have nor deserve it some have it, not deserving it others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.
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And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
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His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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God sure esteems the growth and completing of one virtuous person, more that the restraint of ten vicious.
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men Unless there be who think not God at all.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
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Necessity and chance Approach not me, and what I will is fate.
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Perplexed and troubled at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope.
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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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Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny for no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.
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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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Hell has no benefits, only torture.
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