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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Heard
Sound
War
Around
World
Battle

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Infinity is a dark illimitable ocean, without bound.
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The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks, Safest and seemliest by her husband stays, Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
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Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
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Tis chastity, my brother, chastity She that has that is clad in complete steel, And, like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen, May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, No savage fierce, bandite, or mountaineer, Will dare to soil her virgin purity.
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Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength.
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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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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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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
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Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
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The teachers of our law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own.
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What if Earth be but the shadow of Heaven and things therein - each other like, more than on Earth is thought?
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The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.
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A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all but torture without end.
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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light.
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There is no Christian duty that is not to be seasoned and set off with cheerishness, which in a thousand outward and intermitting crosses may yet be done well, as in this vale of tears.
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The spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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