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If weakness may excuse, What murderer, what traitor, parricide, Incestuous, sacrilegious, but may plead it? All wickedness is weakness that plea, therefore, With God or man will gain thee no remission.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Men
Murderer
Gain
Incestuous
Excuse
Sacrilegious
Gains
Remission
Thee
Plea
Weakness
Plead
Therefore
Traitor
May
Wickedness

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Then might ye see Cowls, hoods, and habits with their wearers tost And flutter'd into rags then reliques, beads, Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, The sport of winds all these upwhirl'd aloft Fly to the rearward of the world far off Into a limbo large and broad, since called The paradise of fools.
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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Temper justice with mercy.
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So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.
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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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Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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Where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes, That comes to all.
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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.
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It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.
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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.
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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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My sentence is for open war.
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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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Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.
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