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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.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Earth
Solid
May
Comparison
Good
Plenty
Shining
Sun
Small
Barren
Though
Shines
Heaven
Contain

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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth.
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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Rhime being no necessary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verse, in longer Works especially, but the Invention of a barbarous Age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meeter...the troublesom and modern bondage of Rimeing.
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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To know that which lies before us in daily life is the prime wisdom.
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But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began.
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He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.
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Angels contented with their face in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
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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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For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
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Eloquence the soul, song charms the senses.
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Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
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Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength.
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How gladly would I meet mortality, my sentence, and be earth in sensible! How glad would lay me down, as in my mother's lap! There I should rest, and sleep secure.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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Joking decides great things, Stronger and better oft than earnest can.
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Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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