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The starry cope Of heaven.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Starry
Cope
Heaven

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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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Satan so call him now, his former name Is heard no more in heaven.
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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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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Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.
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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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Solitude sometimes is best society.
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For so I created them free and free they must remain.
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Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
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Evil into the mind of god or man may come and go, so unapproved, and leave no spot or blame behind.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War.
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
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And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe!
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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.
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