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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Deeds
Ambition
Commend
Side
Doer
Sides
Doers
Though
Mute
Spokes
Spoke
Loud

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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
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It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.
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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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Nor love thy life, nor hate but what thou livest, Live well how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
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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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Hail, wedded love, mysterious law true source of human happiness.
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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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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.
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If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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Dark with excessive bright.
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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O visions ill foreseen! Better had I Liv'd ignorant of future, so had borne My part of evil only.
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Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
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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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Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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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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He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.
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