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Death to life is crown or shame.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Crown
Crowns
Shame
Death
Life

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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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Hail, wedded love, mysterious law true source of human happiness.
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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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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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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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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
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My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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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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Lords are lordliest in their wine.
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