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Time is the subtle thief of youth.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Thief
Thieves
Subtle
Youth
Time

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Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.
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Here we may reign secure and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell: Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.
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In discourse more sweet For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
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The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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Reason also is choice.
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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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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Thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers.
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
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Dark with excessive bright.
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Our cure, to be no more sad cure!
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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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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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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Myself, and all the Angelic Host, that stand in the sight of God enthroned, our happy state hold, as you yours, while our obedience hold. On other surety none: freely we serve, because we freely love.
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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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