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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Soar
Fancy
Singing
Poet
Garland
High
Fancies
Reason
Soaring
Garlands
Robes

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It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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Impostor do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance she, good cateress, Means her provision only to the good, That live according to her sober laws, And holy dictate of spare temperance.
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Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
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If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair that ever since in love's embraces met -- Adam, the goodliest man of men since born his sons the fairest of her daughters Eve.
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Hide me from day's garish eye.
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O Conscience, into what abyss of fears And horrors hast thou driven me, out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged.
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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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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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O when meet now Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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Hell has no benefits, only torture.
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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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The planets in their station list'ning stood.
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