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And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Train
Heav
Starry
Gems
Jewelry

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A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond / Frightened the reign of Chaos and old Night.
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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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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This is servitude, To serve th'unwise, or him who hath rebelled Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee, Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled.
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
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Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.
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Where no hope is left, is left no fear.
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Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do.
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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.
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Freely we serve, Because we freely love, as in our will To love or not in this we stand or fall.
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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