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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.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Wells
Fair
Dispraise
Well
Noble
Wail
Nothing
Blame
Nobility
Weakness
Knock
Tears
Breast
Quiet
Breasts
Death
Contempt
May
Fairs

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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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Danger will wink on opportunity.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.
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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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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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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
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Where shame is, there is also fear.
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Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
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From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
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God shall be all in all.
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
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Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
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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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