John Milton

And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.

Hide me from day's garish eye.

But oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd, I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.

(That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears And slits the thin-spun life.

Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.

But what more oft in nations grown corrupt, _x000D_ And by their vices brought to servitude, _x000D_ Than to love bondage more than liberty,_x000D_ Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty.

True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.

Let us go forth and resolutely dare with sweat of brow to toil our little day.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.

What call thou solitude? Is not the earth with various living creatures, and the air replenished, and all these at thy command to come and play before thee?

Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round

Spirits that live throughout, Vital in every part, not as frail man, In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins, Cannot but by annihilating die.

Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.

The gay motes that people the sunbeams.

Me miserable! Which way shall I fly_x000D_ Infinite wrath and infinite despair?_x000D_ Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;_x000D_ And in the lowest deep a lower deep,_x000D_ Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,_x000D_ To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint.

Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.

For what can war, but endless war, still breed?

Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.

Nothing profits more than self-esteem, grounded on what is just and right.