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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
Writing
Manner
Accounts
Hand
Knowing
Use
Wherein
Left
Inferior
Hands
Inferiors
May
Account

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What is dark within me, illumine.
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Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves.
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And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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Perplexed and troubled at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope.
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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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How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled!
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It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
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This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, our great redemption from above did bring.
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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It is for homely features to keep home,- They had their name thence coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?
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Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny for no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.
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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
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Then might ye see Cowls, hoods, and habits with their wearers tost And flutter'd into rags then reliques, beads, Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, The sport of winds all these upwhirl'd aloft Fly to the rearward of the world far off Into a limbo large and broad, since called The paradise of fools.
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Let us go forth and resolutely dare with sweat of brow to toil our little day.
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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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What boots it at one gate to make defence, And at another to let in the foe?
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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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Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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