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Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Whereon
Wreck
Wrecks
Rocks
Greatest
Men

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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.
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And, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
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Hail, holy light! offspring of heaven firstborn! Or of th' eternal co-eternal beam, May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate!
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There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.
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Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
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Here we may reign secure and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell: Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.
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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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God shall be all in all.
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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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Only add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add faith, Add virtue, patience, temperance, add love, By name to come call'd charity, the soul Of all the rest then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shall possess A Paradise within thee, happier far.
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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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The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burthensome, still paying, still to owe Forgetful what from him I still receivd, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and dischargd what burden then?
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Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
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As therefore the state of man now is, what wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbear, without the knowledge of good and evil?
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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