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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Enjoyment
Alone
Enjoy
Find
Enjoying
Contentment

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My sentence is for open war.
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Hail, holy light! offspring of heaven firstborn! Or of th' eternal co-eternal beam, May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate!
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And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
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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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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.
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What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?
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Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav'n.
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And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe!
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But infinite in pardon is my Judge.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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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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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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The pious and just honoring of ourselves may be thought the fountainhead from whence every laudable and worthy enterprise issues forth.
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Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round
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