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Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Alone
Stoop
Free
Stoops
Would
Feeble
Love
Climb
Climbs
Higher
Chime
Virtue
Heav
Teach
Chimes

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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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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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Dark with excessive bright.
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Oh, shame to men! devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.
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Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne.
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Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
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Therefore God's universal law Gave to the man despotic power Over his female in due awe, Not from that right to part an hour, Smile she or lour.
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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,Farewell remorse: all good to me is lostEvil,be thou my good.
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Joking decides great things, Stronger and better oft than earnest can.
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Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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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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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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For books are as meats and viands are some of good, some of evil sub-stance.
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In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
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Luck is the residue of design.
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The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.
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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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Thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers.
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