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A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond / Frightened the reign of Chaos and old Night.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Night
Concave
Tore
Shout
Reign
Frightened
Chaos
Beyond
Hell

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He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.
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How oft, in nations gone corrupt, And by their own devices brought down to servitude, That man chooses bondage before liberty. Bondage with ease before strenuous liberty.
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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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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Truth and understanding are not such wares as to be monopolized and traded in by tickets and statutes and standards. We must not think to make a staple commodity of all the knowledge in the land, to mark and license it like our broadcloth and our woolpacks.
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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
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Subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, Right reason for their law.
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But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon.
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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
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Temper justice with mercy.
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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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Eloquence the soul, song charms the senses.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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Freely we serve, Because we freely love, as in our will To love or not in this we stand or fall.
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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
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The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.
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The strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.
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