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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
Wells
Well
Love
Nightly
Nightingale
Nightingales
Thee
Song

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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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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men Unless there be who think not God at all.
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.
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The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character thereby.
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God shall be all in all.
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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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And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies.
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. . . for beauty stands In the admiration only of weak minds Led captive. Cease to admire, and all her plumes Fall flat and shrink into a trivial toy, At every sudden slighting quite abash'd.
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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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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
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Then might ye see Cowls, hoods, and habits with their wearers tost And flutter'd into rags then reliques, beads, Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, The sport of winds all these upwhirl'd aloft Fly to the rearward of the world far off Into a limbo large and broad, since called The paradise of fools.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.
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