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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men Unless there be who think not God at all.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Thinking
Justifiable
Unless
Ways
Way
Men
Think

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It is for homely features to keep home,- They had their name thence coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?
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Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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Where shame is, there is also fear.
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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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Thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers.
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No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.
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Subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, Right reason for their law.
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God shall be all in all.
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They are the troublers, they are the dividers of unity, who neglect and don't permit others to unite those dissevered pieces which are yet wanting to the body of Truth.
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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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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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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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It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.
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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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