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Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav'n.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Reigning
Heav
Sole
Holds
Tyranny

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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
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The spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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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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A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all but torture without end.
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Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
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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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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
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How oft, in nations gone corrupt, And by their own devices brought down to servitude, That man chooses bondage before liberty. Bondage with ease before strenuous liberty.
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Temper justice with mercy.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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First Moloch, horrid king, besmirched in blood, Of Human sacrifice, and parent's tears, Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud, Their childrens' cries unheard, that passed through fire, To his grim idol.
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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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It is Chastity, my brother. She that has that is clad in complete steel.
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