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Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Something
Like
Prophetic
Strain
Attain
Till
Experience

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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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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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So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.
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Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.
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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
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What is dark within me, illumine.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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O visions ill foreseen! Better had I Liv'd ignorant of future, so had borne My part of evil only.
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Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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Angels contented with their face in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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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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Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled.
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Then might ye see Cowls, hoods, and habits with their wearers tost And flutter'd into rags then reliques, beads, Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, The sport of winds all these upwhirl'd aloft Fly to the rearward of the world far off Into a limbo large and broad, since called The paradise of fools.
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And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.
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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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