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Who can in reason then or right assume monarchy over such as live by right his equals, if in power or splendor less, in freedom equal?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Live
Assume
Right
Equality
Assuming
Equal
Freedom
Less
Monarchy
Power
Splendor
Reason
Equals

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Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
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In vain doth valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
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Therefore God's universal law Gave to the man despotic power Over his female in due awe, Not from that right to part an hour, Smile she or lour.
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Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed.
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Come and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toe.
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Ornate rhetorick taught out of the rule of Plato.... To which poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less suttle and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate.
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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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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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength.
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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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This horror will grow mild, this darkness light Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
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Reason also is choice.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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