John Milton (1608 – 1674)
English poet and politician, most famous for his epic poem Paradise Lost.
Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
Such bickerings to recount, met often in these our writers, what more worth is it than to chronicle the wars of kites or crows flocking and fighting in the air?
His words ... like so many nimble and airy servitors trip about him at command.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound
Over some wide-watered shore,
Swinging low with sullen roar.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.
I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heav'n's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warbl'st at eve, when all the woods are still.
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.
Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim.
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth.
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
License they mean when they cry, Liberty!
For who loves that must first be wise and good.
Where the bright seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.
Ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize.
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.
"'Better to rule in Hell, than serve in Heaven.' Eh, little brother-killer?"
"Suh-certainly, Lord Lucifer. Whatever you say, Lord Lucifer."
"We didn't say it. Milton said it. And he was blind."
Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
Meadows trim, with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
Towers and balements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighboring eyes.