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Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it others neither have nor deserve it some have it, not deserving it others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Equal
Miss
Though
Totally
Age
Writers
Others
Neither
Deserve
Deserts
Fame
Deserving
Missing
Ages
Among
Desert

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And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.
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Satan so call him now, his former name Is heard no more in heaven.
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Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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What if Earth be but the shadow of Heaven and things therein - each other like, more than on Earth is thought?
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve The faith they owe when earnestly they seek Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.
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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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For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
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The end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the nearest by possessing our souls of true virtue, which being united to the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection.
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But that from us aught should ascend to Heav'n So prevalent as to concern the mind Of God, high-bless'd, or to incline His will, Hard to belief may seem yet this will prayer.
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.
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By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.
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Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength.
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