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Yet much remains To conquer still peace hath her victories No less renowned then war, new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Less
Souls
Foe
Peace
Save
Threatening
War
Conscience
Secular
Renowned
Helping
Victory
Hath
Foes
Stills
Remains
Chains
Paws
Still
Whose
Conquer
Wolves
Soul
Help
Gospel
Victories
Much
Free
Arise
Bind

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How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled!
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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In vain doth valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
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No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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So glistered the dire Snake , and into fraud Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the Tree Of Prohibition, root of all our woe.
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What if Earth be but the shadow of Heaven and things therein - each other like, more than on Earth is thought?
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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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To overcome in battle, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human glory.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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Impostor do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance she, good cateress, Means her provision only to the good, That live according to her sober laws, And holy dictate of spare temperance.
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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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