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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
Taste
Shall
Choices
Repast
Light
Attic
Attics
Feast
Neat
Choice

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United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard in the glorious enterprise.
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By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.
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Reason is also choice.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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To live a life half dead, a living death.
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The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character thereby.
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Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.
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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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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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The starry cope Of heaven.
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And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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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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To overcome in battle, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human glory.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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