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Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Gaza
Mills
Slaves
Slave
Asks
Find
Great
Deliverer
Mill

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Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene, and as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view.
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The childhood shows the man As morning shows the day. Be famous then By wisdom as thy empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o'er all the world.
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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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What boots it at one gate to make defence, And at another to let in the foe?
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Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
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For Solomon, he lived at ease, and full Of honour, wealth, high fare, aimed not beyond Higher design than to enjoy his state.
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Th'invention all admir'd, and each, how he to be th'inventor miss'd so easy it seem'd once found, which yet unfound most would have thought impossible.
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Only add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add faith, Add virtue, patience, temperance, add love, By name to come call'd charity, the soul Of all the rest then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shall possess A Paradise within thee, happier far.
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Servant of God, well done! well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintain'd Against revolted multitudes the cause of truth.
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Our cure, to be no more sad cure!
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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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Our reason is our law.
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Assuredly we bring not innocence not the world, we bring impurity much rather: that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary.
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O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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Suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life.
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What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
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