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Hell has no benefits, only torture.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Torture
Benefits
Hell

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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrowers, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè.
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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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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Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav'n.
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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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Tis chastity, my brother, chastity She that has that is clad in complete steel, And, like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen, May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, No savage fierce, bandite, or mountaineer, Will dare to soil her virgin purity.
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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blamed enough elsewhere, but strive, In offices of love, how we may lighten each other's burden.
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What reinforcement we may gain from hope If not, what resolution from despair.
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There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.
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If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe!
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The childhood shows the man As morning shows the day. Be famous then By wisdom as thy empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o'er all the world.
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Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
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Where no hope is left, is left no fear.
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Yet much remains To conquer still peace hath her victories No less renowned then war, new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.
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