Quote

Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, Covering the earth with odours, fruits, flocks, Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, But all to please and sate the curious taste?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Taste
Seas
Sate
Please
Pour
Odours
Full
Fruits
Bounties
Hand
Covering
Wherefore
Nature
Forth
Spawn
Hands
Curious
Innumerable
Earth
Fruit
Bounty
Sea
Flocks

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Angels contented with their face in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
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O when meet now Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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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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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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Then might ye see Cowls, hoods, and habits with their wearers tost And flutter'd into rags then reliques, beads, Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, The sport of winds all these upwhirl'd aloft Fly to the rearward of the world far off Into a limbo large and broad, since called The paradise of fools.
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In discourse more sweet For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
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Day and night, Seed-time and harvest, heat and hoary frost Shall hold their course, till fire purge all things new.
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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War.
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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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Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss
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Satan so call him now, his former name Is heard no more in heaven.
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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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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do.
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Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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