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Calm of mind, all passion spent.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Calm
Spent
Passion
Mind

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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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No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.
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In discourse more sweet For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
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Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowy expiations weak.
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Our two first parents, yet the only two Of mankind, in the happy garden placed, Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love, Uninterrupted joy, unrivalled love In blissful solitude.
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I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs By the known rules of ancient liberty, When straight a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
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Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed.
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
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Death to life is crown or shame.
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Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength.
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Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.
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Eloquence the soul, song charms the senses.
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Heav'nly love shall outdoo Hellish hate
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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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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