Quote

The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks, Safest and seemliest by her husband stays, Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Stays
Endure
Husband
Danger
Dishonour
Worst
Lurks
Wife
Safest
Guards
Endures

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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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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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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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Eloquence the soul, song charms the senses.
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Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.
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O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.
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Witness this new-made world, another Heav'n From Heaven Gate not farr, founded in view On the clear Hyaline, the Glassie Sea Of amplitude almost immense, with Starr's Numerous, and every Starr perhaps a world Of destined habitation.
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Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
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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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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.
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Subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, Right reason for their law.
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What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
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O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
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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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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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