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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
Shame
Death
Life
Crown
Crowns

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Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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Servant of God, well done! well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintain'd Against revolted multitudes the cause of truth.
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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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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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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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Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh to lose thee were to lose myself.
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Beauty is Nature's coin, must not be hoarded, But must be current, and the good thereof Consists in mutual and partaken bliss.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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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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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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A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burthensome, still paying, still to owe Forgetful what from him I still receivd, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and dischargd what burden then?
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All seemed well pleased, all seemed, but were not all.
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