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Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Judge
Chaos
Judging
Fate
Shall
Chance
Fickle
Strife
Yield
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.
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Solitude sometimes is best society.
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God sure esteems the growth and completing of one virtuous person, more that the restraint of ten vicious.
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Th'invention all admir'd, and each, how he to be th'inventor miss'd so easy it seem'd once found, which yet unfound most would have thought impossible.
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Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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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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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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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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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.
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In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
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But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light.
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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God, who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through their habitations walks To mark their doings.
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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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