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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Step
Steps
Hell
Place
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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Danger will wink on opportunity.
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Therefore God's universal law Gave to the man despotic power Over his female in due awe, Not from that right to part an hour, Smile she or lour.
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Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
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Where there is much desire to learn, there of necessity will be much arguing, much writing, for opinion in good men is but knowledge in the making.
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Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.
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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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Thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men Unless there be who think not God at all.
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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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Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love.
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possess'd.
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The starry cope Of heaven.
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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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Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to the possessor.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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If at great things thou would'st arrive, Get riches first, get wealth, and treasure heap, Not difficult, if thou hearken to me Riches are mine, fortune is in my hand, They whom I favor thrive in wealth amain, While virtue, valor, wisdom, sit in want.
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