Quote

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.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Nothing
Pulse
Would
Stream
World
Pet
Feed
Streams
Wear
Temp
Drink
Temperance
Clear
Giver

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And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.
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Angels contented with their face in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
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Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began.
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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
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The spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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Nor love thy life, nor hate but what thou livest, Live well how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
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To know that which lies before us in daily life is the prime wisdom.
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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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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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That space the Evil One abstracted stood From his own evil, and for the time remained Stupidly good, of enmity disarmed, Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge .
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene, and as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view.
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Believe and be confirmed.
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