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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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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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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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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.
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Satan so call him now, his former name Is heard no more in heaven.
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Servant of God, well done! well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintain'd Against revolted multitudes the cause of truth.
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With thee conversing I forget all time.
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And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.
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For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrowers, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè.
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Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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What reinforcement we may gain from hope If not, what resolution from despair.
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And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe!
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Hell has no benefits, only torture.
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