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Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Ground
Hands
Knit
Light
Ballet
Come
Round
Rounds
Fantastic
Beat
Beats

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O when meet now Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
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Impostor do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance she, good cateress, Means her provision only to the good, That live according to her sober laws, And holy dictate of spare temperance.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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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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I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
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Reason also is choice.
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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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Evil into the mind of god or man may come and go, so unapproved, and leave no spot or blame behind.
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Virtue hath no tongue to check vice's pride.
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On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
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Behold now this vast city [London] a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection.
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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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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light.
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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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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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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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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Let us seek Death, or he not found, supply With our own hands his office on ourselves Why stand we longer shivering under fears, That show no end but death, and have the power, Of many ways to die the shortest choosing, Destruction with destruction to destroy.
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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