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Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Surprised
Virtue
Hurt
Force
May
Never
Enthralled
Assailed
Unjust

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Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
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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.
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Only add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add faith, Add virtue, patience, temperance, add love, By name to come call'd charity, the soul Of all the rest then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shall possess A Paradise within thee, happier far.
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But God himself is truth in propagating which, as men display a greater integrity and zeal, they approach nearer to the similitude of God, and possess a greater portion of his love.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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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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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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Let us go forth and resolutely dare with sweat of brow to toil our little day.
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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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The spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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Behold now this vast city [London] a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection.
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Our country is where ever we are well off.
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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Day and night, Seed-time and harvest, heat and hoary frost Shall hold their course, till fire purge all things new.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
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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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O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost
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