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The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Retirement
Academe
Thick
Trill
Notes
Attic
Bird
Attics
Summer
Olive
Long
Olives
Grove
Plato

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Our country is where ever we are well off.
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By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.
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God, who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through their habitations walks To mark their doings.
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Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastic toe.
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Fame is the last infirmity of the human mind.
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He who tempts, though in vain, at last asperses The tempted with dishonor foul, supposed Not incorruptible of faith, not proof Against temptation.
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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.
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First Moloch, horrid king, besmirched in blood, Of Human sacrifice, and parent's tears, Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud, Their childrens' cries unheard, that passed through fire, To his grim idol.
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The starry cope Of heaven.
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.
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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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The teachers of our law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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