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Satan so call him now, his former name Is heard no more in heaven.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Name
Heard
Names
Call
Heaven
Satan
Former

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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Now came still evening on and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied for beast and bird, They to they grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.
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My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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Each tree Laden with fairest fruit, that hung to th' eye Tempting, stirr'd in me sudden appetite To pluck and eat.
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Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
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Perplexed and troubled at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope.
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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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Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.
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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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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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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War.
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