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But infinite in pardon is my Judge.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Judging
Infinite
Pardon
Judge

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Myself, and all the Angelic Host, that stand in the sight of God enthroned, our happy state hold, as you yours, while our obedience hold. On other surety none: freely we serve, because we freely love.
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The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.
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Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides.
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With eyes Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd. Imparadised in one another's arms. With thee conversing I forget all time. And feel that I am happier than I know.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
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Now came still evening on and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied for beast and bird, They to they grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.
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All seemed well pleased, all seemed, but were not all.
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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Only add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add faith, Add virtue, patience, temperance, add love, By name to come call'd charity, the soul Of all the rest then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shall possess A Paradise within thee, happier far.
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It is Chastity, my brother. She that has that is clad in complete steel.
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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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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.
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What reinforcement we may gain from hope If not, what resolution from despair.
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Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.
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For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
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Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it others neither have nor deserve it some have it, not deserving it others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.
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Fairy damsels met in forest wide / By knights of Logres, or of Lyones, / Lancelot or Pelleas, or Pellenore.
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