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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
Pardon
Judge
Judging
Infinite

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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair that ever since in love's embraces met -- Adam, the goodliest man of men since born his sons the fairest of her daughters Eve.
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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
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To live a life half dead, a living death.
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Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
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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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For so I created them free and free they must remain.
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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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Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne.
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Hail, wedded love, mysterious law true source of human happiness.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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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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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.
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I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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