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He who tempts, though in vain, at last asperses The tempted with dishonor foul, supposed Not incorruptible of faith, not proof Against temptation.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Faith
Corruption
Temptation
Vain
Proof
Incorruptible
Supposed
Tempts
Though
Dishonor
Lasts
Foul
Last
Tempted

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Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.
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And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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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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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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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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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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So little knows Any, but God alone, but perverts best things To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
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Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.
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In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
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My sentence is for open war.
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To live a life half dead, a living death.
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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men Unless there be who think not God at all.
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O Conscience, into what abyss of fears And horrors hast thou driven me, out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged.
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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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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.
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But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon.
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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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