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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Golden
Fast
Star
Bigness
Moon
Magnitude
Close
Chain
Stars
Hanging
World
Smallest
Chains
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To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.
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If we think we regulate printing, thereby to rectify manners, we must regulate all regulations and pastimes, all that is delightful to man.
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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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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
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Witness this new-made world, another Heav'n From Heaven Gate not farr, founded in view On the clear Hyaline, the Glassie Sea Of amplitude almost immense, with Starr's Numerous, and every Starr perhaps a world Of destined habitation.
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A broad and ample road, whose dust is gold, And pavement stars,--as stars to thee appear Seen in the galaxy, that milky way Which nightly as a circling zone thou seest Powder'd with stars.
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Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
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This horror will grow mild, this darkness light Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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Thy actions to thy words accord thy words To thy large heart give utterance due thy heart Contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
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Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to the possessor.
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