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The great creator from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a world.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Work
World
Returned
Magnificent
Creator
Six
Days
Great

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The planets in their station list'ning stood.
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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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When we speak of knowing God, it must be understood with reference to man's limited powers of comprehension. God, as He really is, is far beyond man's imagination, let alone understanding. God has revealed only so much of Himself as our minds can conceive and the weakness of our nature can bear.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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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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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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Evil, be thou my good.
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For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrowers, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè.
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possess'd.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
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The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
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Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
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Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
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Reason also is choice.
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