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Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Seat
Seats
Bliss
Works
Violence
Heaven
War
Brooks

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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men Unless there be who think not God at all.
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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When we speak of knowing God, it must be understood with reference to man's limited powers of comprehension. God, as He really is, is far beyond man's imagination, let alone understanding. God has revealed only so much of Himself as our minds can conceive and the weakness of our nature can bear.
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Nor think thou with wind Of æry threats to awe whom yet with deeds Thou canst not.
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I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend.
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Necessity and chance Approach not me, and what I will is fate.
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Where there is much desire to learn, there of necessity will be much arguing, much writing, for opinion in good men is but knowledge in the making.
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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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Prudence is the virtue by which we discern what is proper to do under various circumstances in time and place.
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Our reason is our law.
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But all was false and hollow though his tongue Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, 4 to perplex and dash Maturest counsels.
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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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Reason is also choice.
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Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
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Angels contented with their face in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
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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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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
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