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Heav'nly love shall outdoo Hellish hate

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Heav
Shall
Hate
Love
Hellish

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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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Hail, wedded love, mysterious law true source of human happiness.
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Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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Fairy damsels met in forest wide / By knights of Logres, or of Lyones, / Lancelot or Pelleas, or Pellenore.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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For books are as meats and viands are some of good, some of evil sub-stance.
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The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.
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Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost
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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.
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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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Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled.
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But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.
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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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