Quote

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.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Wind
Stands
Mist
Smite
Ready
Draw
Engine
Devours
Two
Hungry
Handed
Contagion
Look
Daily
Foul
Paws
Nothing
Spread
Feds
Inwardly
Looks
Draws
Engines
Grim
Door
Besides
Rank
Apace
Doors
Sheep
Wolf
Privy

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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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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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Witness this new-made world, another Heav'n From Heaven Gate not farr, founded in view On the clear Hyaline, the Glassie Sea Of amplitude almost immense, with Starr's Numerous, and every Starr perhaps a world Of destined habitation.
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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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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O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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So little knows Any, but God alone, but perverts best things To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
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Hide me from day's garish eye.
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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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And to thy husband's will Thine shall submit he over thee shall rule.
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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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A broad and ample road, whose dust is gold, And pavement stars,--as stars to thee appear Seen in the galaxy, that milky way Which nightly as a circling zone thou seest Powder'd with stars.
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He who tempts, though in vain, at last asperses The tempted with dishonor foul, supposed Not incorruptible of faith, not proof Against temptation.
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What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?
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Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.
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