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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Fugitive
Add
Punishment
False
Speed
Wings
Back

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Heaven Is as the Book of God before thee set, Wherein to read His wondrous works.
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Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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The Tree of Knowledge grew fast by, Knowledge of Good bought dear by knowing ill.
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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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The spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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Our cure, to be no more sad cure!
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Gratitude bestows reverence.....changing forever how we experience life and the world.
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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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They are the troublers, they are the dividers of unity, who neglect and don't permit others to unite those dissevered pieces which are yet wanting to the body of Truth.
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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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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.
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These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.
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Believe and be confirmed.
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Luck is the residue of design.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
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And now without redemption all mankind Must have been lost, adjudged to death and hell By doom severe.
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