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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Large
Fool
Since
Limbo
Call
Broads
Broad
Fools
Paradise
Unknown

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Subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, Right reason for their law.
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And now without redemption all mankind Must have been lost, adjudged to death and hell By doom severe.
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And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.
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Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
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Impostor do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance she, good cateress, Means her provision only to the good, That live according to her sober laws, And holy dictate of spare temperance.
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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men Unless there be who think not God at all.
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Where shame is, there is also fear.
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But God himself is truth in propagating which, as men display a greater integrity and zeal, they approach nearer to the similitude of God, and possess a greater portion of his love.
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Witness this new-made world, another Heav'n From Heaven Gate not farr, founded in view On the clear Hyaline, the Glassie Sea Of amplitude almost immense, with Starr's Numerous, and every Starr perhaps a world Of destined habitation.
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Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.
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All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.
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Our two first parents, yet the only two Of mankind, in the happy garden placed, Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love, Uninterrupted joy, unrivalled love In blissful solitude.
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His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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Myself, and all the Angelic Host, that stand in the sight of God enthroned, our happy state hold, as you yours, while our obedience hold. On other surety none: freely we serve, because we freely love.
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Virtue hath no tongue to check vice's pride.
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