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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
Mind
Calm
Spent
Passion

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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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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it others neither have nor deserve it some have it, not deserving it others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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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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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
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Our cure, to be no more sad cure!
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Impostor do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance she, good cateress, Means her provision only to the good, That live according to her sober laws, And holy dictate of spare temperance.
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Heav'nly love shall outdoo Hellish hate
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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.
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The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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Indu'd With sanctity of reason.
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