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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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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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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Don't hold grudges it's pointless. Jealousy too is a non-cathartic, negative emotion. .
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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend.
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
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Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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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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Come and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toe.
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The starry cope Of heaven.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.
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