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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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There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.
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Courage never to submit of yield.
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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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For Solomon, he lived at ease, and full Of honour, wealth, high fare, aimed not beyond Higher design than to enjoy his state.
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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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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O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost
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If there be any difference among professed believers as to the sense of Scripture, it is their duty to tolerate such difference in each other, until God shall have revealed the truth to all.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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Let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live.
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.
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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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It is for homely features to keep home,- They had their name thence coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?
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The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.
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To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.
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Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.
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