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Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
May
Edge
Extol
Men
Riches
Aught
Merit
Snare
Edges
Prompt
Praise
Snares
Fool
Prompts
Wise
Toil
Slacken
Virtue
Fools
Abate

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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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Believe and be confirmed.
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Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves.
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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Dark with excessive bright.
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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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So little knows Any, but God alone, but perverts best things To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
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Meanwhile the Adversary of God and man, Satan with thoughts inflamed of highest design, Puts on swift wings, and towards the gates of hell Explores his solitary flight.
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Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blamed enough elsewhere, but strive, In offices of love, how we may lighten each other's burden.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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O why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest heav'n With Spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men as angels without feminine, Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
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The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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Such joy ambition finds.
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When we speak of knowing God, it must be understood with reference to man's limited powers of comprehension. God, as He really is, is far beyond man's imagination, let alone understanding. God has revealed only so much of Himself as our minds can conceive and the weakness of our nature can bear.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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