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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Sleep
Thigh
Eye
Murmuring
Water
Thighs
Garish
Keep
Doth
Consort
Work
Waters
Entice
Bees
Feathered
Hide
Dewy
Sing
Flowery
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Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.
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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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Where no hope is left, is left no fear.
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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.
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For books are as meats and viands are some of good, some of evil sub-stance.
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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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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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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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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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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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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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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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This horror will grow mild, this darkness light Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
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And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.
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From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.
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