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All seemed well pleased, all seemed, but were not all.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Wells
Well
Pleased
Seemed

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A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses
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Hail, holy light! offspring of heaven firstborn! Or of th' eternal co-eternal beam, May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate!
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Our country is where ever we are well off.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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In vain doth valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
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We read not that Christ ever exercised force but once and that was to drive profane ones out of his Temple, not to force them in.
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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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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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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Danger will wink on opportunity.
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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
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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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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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Oh, shame to men! devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.
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Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.
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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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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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To live a life half dead, a living death.
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