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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Sweet
Morn
Morning
Earliest
Birds
Charm
Rising
Breath
Breaths
Bird

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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowy expiations weak.
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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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It is not good that man should be alone. ... Hitherto all things that have been named, were approved of God to be very good: loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good: whether it be a thing, or the want of something, I labour not.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.
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Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.
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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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Nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study household good, And good works in her husband to promote.
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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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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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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
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Subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, Right reason for their law.
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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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The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character thereby.
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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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