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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Nightly
Nightingale
Nightingales
Thee
Song
Wells
Well
Love

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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.
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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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So glistered the dire Snake , and into fraud Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the Tree Of Prohibition, root of all our woe.
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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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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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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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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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Where shame is, there is also fear.
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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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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
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If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.
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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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A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all but torture without end.
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These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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