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Fairy damsels met in forest wide / By knights of Logres, or of Lyones, / Lancelot or Pelleas, or Pellenore.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Knights
Forest
Fairy
Forests
Mets
Wide
Damsels
Lancelot

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Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve The faith they owe when earnestly they seek Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.
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In vain doth valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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The strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.
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United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard in the glorious enterprise.
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My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth.
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Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.
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I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs By the known rules of ancient liberty, When straight a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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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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What reinforcement we may gain from hope If not, what resolution from despair.
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Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed.
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The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.
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Solitude sometimes is best society.
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