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The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Locks
Vast
Strength
Hair
Purpose
Clustering
Redundant
Monument

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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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Evil into the mind of god or man may come and go, so unapproved, and leave no spot or blame behind.
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Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
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Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength.
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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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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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My sentence is for open war.
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He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun Himself his own dungeon.
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Earth felt the wound and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.
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A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses
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And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.
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Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
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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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But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon.
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Death to life is crown or shame.
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Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.
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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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