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Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Pair
Pairs
Happiness
Happy
May
Live

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He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun Himself his own dungeon.
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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Time, though in Eternity, applied To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future.
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There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.
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The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
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Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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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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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene, and as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled.
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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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Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowy expiations weak.
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Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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Let no man seek Henceforth to be foretold that shall befall Him or his children.
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Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
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Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.
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