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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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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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Fear of change perplexes monarchs.
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Joking decides great things, Stronger and better oft than earnest can.
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Reason also is choice.
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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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The childhood shows the man As morning shows the day. Be famous then By wisdom as thy empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o'er all the world.
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O when meet now Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
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Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.
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Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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Tis chastity, my brother, chastity She that has that is clad in complete steel, And, like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen, May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, No savage fierce, bandite, or mountaineer, Will dare to soil her virgin purity.
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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Our cure, to be no more sad cure!
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Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
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For truth is strong next to the Almighty. She needs no policies or stratagems or licensings to make her victorious. These are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power.
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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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In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
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A boundless continent, Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of night Starless expos'd.
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To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.
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For the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.
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