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O madness to think use of strongest wines And strongest drinks our chief support of health, When God with these forbidden made choice to rear His mighty champion, strong above compare, Whose drink was only from the liquid brook.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Use
Madness
Liquid
Strong
Wine
Forbidden
Made
Choice
Mighty
Wines
Think
Whose
Chief
Brook
Thinking
Drink
Chiefs
Rear
Health
Strongest
Temperance
Support
Champion
Drinks
Choices
Compare
Brooks

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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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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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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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When we speak of knowing God, it must be understood with reference to man's limited powers of comprehension. God, as He really is, is far beyond man's imagination, let alone understanding. God has revealed only so much of Himself as our minds can conceive and the weakness of our nature can bear.
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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Joking decides great things, Stronger and better oft than earnest can.
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They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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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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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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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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First Moloch, horrid king, besmirched in blood, Of Human sacrifice, and parent's tears, Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud, Their childrens' cries unheard, that passed through fire, To his grim idol.
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What reinforcement we may gain from hope If not, what resolution from despair.
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