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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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His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.
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Virtue hath no tongue to check vice's pride.
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Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, Covering the earth with odours, fruits, flocks, Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, But all to please and sate the curious taste?
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Our reason is our law.
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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
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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, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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Hide me from day's garish eye.
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit/Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste/Brought death into the world, and all our woe,/With loss of Eden, till one greater Man/Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,/Sing heavenly muse
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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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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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Fear of change perplexes monarchs.
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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
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And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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