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O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Hope
Lover
Stills
Fresh
Still
Fill
Propitious
May
Woods
Nightingale
Heart
Thou
Nightingales
Lovers
Dost
Lead
Jolly
Hours
Spray
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Behold now this vast city [London] a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection.
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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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Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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The great creator from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a world.
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If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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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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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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O Conscience, into what abyss of fears And horrors hast thou driven me, out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged.
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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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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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These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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