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O visions ill foreseen! Better had I Liv'd ignorant of future, so had borne My part of evil only.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Future
Evil
Part
Foreseen
Better
Borne
Visions
Ill
Ignorant
Vision

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Eloquence the soul, song charms the senses.
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From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe!
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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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Hide me from day's garish eye.
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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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Thy actions to thy words accord thy words To thy large heart give utterance due thy heart Contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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Each tree Laden with fairest fruit, that hung to th' eye Tempting, stirr'd in me sudden appetite To pluck and eat.
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Fear of change perplexes monarchs.
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It is for homely features to keep home,- They had their name thence coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?
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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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It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
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Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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Therefore God's universal law Gave to the man despotic power Over his female in due awe, Not from that right to part an hour, Smile she or lour.
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