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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
Dart
Stands
Ready
Death
Interpose

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There is no Christian duty that is not to be seasoned and set off with cheerishness, which in a thousand outward and intermitting crosses may yet be done well, as in this vale of tears.
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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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Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
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If at great things thou would'st arrive, Get riches first, get wealth, and treasure heap, Not difficult, if thou hearken to me Riches are mine, fortune is in my hand, They whom I favor thrive in wealth amain, While virtue, valor, wisdom, sit in want.
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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Fame is the last infirmity of the human mind.
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Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.
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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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Truth and understanding are not such wares as to be monopolized and traded in by tickets and statutes and standards. We must not think to make a staple commodity of all the knowledge in the land, to mark and license it like our broadcloth and our woolpacks.
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And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.
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Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
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Perplexed and troubled at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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