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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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Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
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I call a complete and generous education that which fits a man to perform justly, skillfully, and magnanimously all the offices, both private and public, of peace and war.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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Where all life dies death lives.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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The end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the nearest by possessing our souls of true virtue, which being united to the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection.
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Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
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Temper justice with mercy.
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He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.
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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.
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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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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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Indu'd With sanctity of reason.
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This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.
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Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled.
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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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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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Beauty is Nature's coin, must not be hoarded, But must be current, and the good thereof Consists in mutual and partaken bliss.
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For so I created them free and free they must remain.
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