John Milton (1608 – 1674)
English poet and politician, most famous for his epic poem Paradise Lost.
He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.
Truth...never comes into the world but like a bastard, to the ignominy of him that brought her forth.
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he Wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.
Herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.
Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
So well your words his noble virtues praise,
That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
O fairest flower! no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken primrose fading timelessly.
It was the winter wild
While the Heav'n-born child
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That He our deadly forfeit should release,
And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against Nature not to go out, and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove afield; and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night.
But oh! as to embrace me she inclined,
I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste?
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return!
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter, holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it, as you go.
On the light fantastic toe.
Without the meed of some melodious tear.