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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
Heaven
Satan
Former
Name
Heard
Names
Call

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That space the Evil One abstracted stood From his own evil, and for the time remained Stupidly good, of enmity disarmed, Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge .
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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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O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.
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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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When we speak of knowing God, it must be understood with reference to man's limited powers of comprehension. God, as He really is, is far beyond man's imagination, let alone understanding. God has revealed only so much of Himself as our minds can conceive and the weakness of our nature can bear.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
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Time, though in Eternity, applied To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future.
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But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.
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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
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Our cure, to be no more sad cure!
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He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.
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These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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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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