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A boundless continent, Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of night Starless expos'd.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Continents
Wild
Waste
Dark
Expos
Night
Starless
World
Frown
Continent
Boundless

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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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Such joy ambition finds.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh to lose thee were to lose myself.
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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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Reason also is choice.
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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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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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Hate is of all things the mightiest divider, nay, is division itself. To couple hatred, therefore, though wedlock try all her golden links, and borrow to tier aid all the iron manacles and fetters of law, it does but seek to twist a rope of sand.
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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O Conscience, into what abyss of fears And horrors hast thou driven me, out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.
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But that from us aught should ascend to Heav'n So prevalent as to concern the mind Of God, high-bless'd, or to incline His will, Hard to belief may seem yet this will prayer.
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