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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Nimble
Airy
Trip
Command
Words
Many
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On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
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Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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Necessity and chance Approach not me, and what I will is fate.
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... then there was war in heaven. But it was not angels. It was that small golden zeppelin, like a long oval world, high up. It seemed as if the cosmic order were gone, as if there had come a new order, a new heavens above us: and as if the world in anger were trying to revoke it.
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Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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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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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blamed enough elsewhere, but strive, In offices of love, how we may lighten each other's burden.
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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Heaven Is as the Book of God before thee set, Wherein to read His wondrous works.
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The great creator from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a world.
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But infinite in pardon is my Judge.
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O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost
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Th'invention all admir'd, and each, how he to be th'inventor miss'd so easy it seem'd once found, which yet unfound most would have thought impossible.
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Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love.
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None But such as are good men can give good things, And that which is not good, is not delicious To a well-govern'd and wise appetite.
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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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The pious and just honoring of ourselves may be thought the fountainhead from whence every laudable and worthy enterprise issues forth.
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