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Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Best
Contemplation
Bustle
Self
Solitude
Resort
Sometimes
Wings
Resorts
Various
Feathers
Sweet
Retired
Grow
Lets
Ruffled
Grows
Seeks
Plumes
Wisdom
Nurse
Impaired
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In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
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The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.
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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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They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.
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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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Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.
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Gratitude bestows reverence.....changing forever how we experience life and the world.
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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Evil, be thou my good.
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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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Time, though in Eternity, applied To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
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Knowledge forbidden? Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord Envy them that? Can it be sin to know, Can it be death? And do they only stand By ignorance? Is that their happy state, The proof of their obedience and their faith? O fair foundation laid whereon to build Their ruin!
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Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.
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A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond / Frightened the reign of Chaos and old Night.
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Here the great art lies, to discern in what the law is to be to restraint and punishment, and in what things persuasion only is to work.
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To overcome in battle, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human glory.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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