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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Head
Cowslip
Bends
Tread
Velvet
Thus
Feet

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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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Prudence is the virtue by which we discern what is proper to do under various circumstances in time and place.
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These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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Time, though in Eternity, applied To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future.
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He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun Himself his own dungeon.
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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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Danger will wink on opportunity.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
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Where no hope is left, is left no fear.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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Such joy ambition finds.
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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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Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blamed enough elsewhere, but strive, In offices of love, how we may lighten each other's burden.
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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 spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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