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What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Feast
Neat
Choice
Taste
Shall
Choices
Repast
Light
Attic
Attics

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The pious and just honoring of ourselves may be thought the fountainhead from whence every laudable and worthy enterprise issues forth.
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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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The great creator from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a world.
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Heav'nly love shall outdoo Hellish hate
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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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And now without redemption all mankind Must have been lost, adjudged to death and hell By doom severe.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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Oh, shame to men! devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
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Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it others neither have nor deserve it some have it, not deserving it others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.
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For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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Meanwhile the Adversary of God and man, Satan with thoughts inflamed of highest design, Puts on swift wings, and towards the gates of hell Explores his solitary flight.
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Truth and understanding are not such wares as to be monopolized and traded in by tickets and statutes and standards. We must not think to make a staple commodity of all the knowledge in the land, to mark and license it like our broadcloth and our woolpacks.
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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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The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.
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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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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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