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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.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Divine
Sweeping
Lines
Presenting
Come
Gorgeous
Tale
Divinity
Thebes
Tales
Pall
Tragedy
Troy
Line
Sometime

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Ah gentle pair, ye little think how nigh Your change approaches, when all these delights Will vanish and deliver ye to woe, More woe, the more your taste is now of joy.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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He who tempts, though in vain, at last asperses The tempted with dishonor foul, supposed Not incorruptible of faith, not proof Against temptation.
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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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First Moloch, horrid king, besmirched in blood, Of Human sacrifice, and parent's tears, Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud, Their childrens' cries unheard, that passed through fire, To his grim idol.
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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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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Fear of change perplexes monarchs.
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh to lose thee were to lose myself.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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Our cure, to be no more sad cure!
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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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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.
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O Conscience, into what abyss of fears And horrors hast thou driven me, out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged.
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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.
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In vain doth valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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