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Joking decides great things, Stronger and better oft than earnest can.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Decides
Earnest
Stronger
Better
Great
Things
Joking

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Subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, Right reason for their law.
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Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
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. . . for beauty stands In the admiration only of weak minds Led captive. Cease to admire, and all her plumes Fall flat and shrink into a trivial toy, At every sudden slighting quite abash'd.
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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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Suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life.
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For the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.
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Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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God, who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through their habitations walks To mark their doings.
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To know that which lies before us in daily life is the prime wisdom.
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Be lowly wise: Think only what concerns thee and thy being.
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Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
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In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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Ah gentle pair, ye little think how nigh Your change approaches, when all these delights Will vanish and deliver ye to woe, More woe, the more your taste is now of joy.
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.
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Believe and be confirmed.
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