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This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
May
Account
Writing
Manner
Accounts
Hand
Knowing
Use
Wherein
Left
Inferior
Hands
Inferiors

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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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O why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest heav'n With Spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men as angels without feminine, Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
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Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.
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Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength.
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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost
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How oft, in nations gone corrupt, And by their own devices brought down to servitude, That man chooses bondage before liberty. Bondage with ease before strenuous liberty.
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The great creator from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a world.
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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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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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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.
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Death to life is crown or shame.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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