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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Interpose
Dart
Stands
Ready
Death

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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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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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Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
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Hate is of all things the mightiest divider, nay, is division itself. To couple hatred, therefore, though wedlock try all her golden links, and borrow to tier aid all the iron manacles and fetters of law, it does but seek to twist a rope of sand.
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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Oh, shame to men! devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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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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And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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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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Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.
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Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny for no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.
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For so I created them free and free they must remain.
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Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.
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