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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
Beats
Ground
Hands
Knit
Light
Ballet
Come
Round
Rounds
Fantastic
Beat

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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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Let us go forth and resolutely dare with sweat of brow to toil our little day.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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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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We read not that Christ ever exercised force but once and that was to drive profane ones out of his Temple, not to force them in.
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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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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne.
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Ah gentle pair, ye little think how nigh Your change approaches, when all these delights Will vanish and deliver ye to woe, More woe, the more your taste is now of joy.
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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to the possessor.
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Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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Evil, be thou my good.
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