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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Cold
Age
Damp
Years
Wing
Intended
Wings
Climate
Late
Unless

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Knowledge forbidden? Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord Envy them that? Can it be sin to know, Can it be death? And do they only stand By ignorance? Is that their happy state, The proof of their obedience and their faith? O fair foundation laid whereon to build Their ruin!
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Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
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Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
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We shall sooner have the fowl by hatching the egg than by smashing it. Abraham Lincoln, White House speech 11 April 1865. Or arm th' obdured breast With stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, our great redemption from above did bring.
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We read not that Christ ever exercised force but once and that was to drive profane ones out of his Temple, not to force them in.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses
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Here the great art lies, to discern in what the law is to be to restraint and punishment, and in what things persuasion only is to work.
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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Hate is of all things the mightiest divider, nay, is division itself. To couple hatred, therefore, though wedlock try all her golden links, and borrow to tier aid all the iron manacles and fetters of law, it does but seek to twist a rope of sand.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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Luck is the residue of design.
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And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.
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A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all but torture without end.
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