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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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Here the great art lies, to discern in what the law is to be to restraint and punishment, and in what things persuasion only is to work.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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Impostor do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance she, good cateress, Means her provision only to the good, That live according to her sober laws, And holy dictate of spare temperance.
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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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The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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Nor think thou with wind Of æry threats to awe whom yet with deeds Thou canst not.
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God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest They also serve who only stand and wait.
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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.
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What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?
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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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Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastic toe.
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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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His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.
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Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
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Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss
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We shall sooner have the fowl by hatching the egg than by smashing it. Abraham Lincoln, White House speech 11 April 1865. Or arm th' obdured breast With stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.
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