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And, When Night Darkens The Streets, Then Wander Forth The Sons Of Belial, Flown With Insolence And Wine.

-John Milton

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And, When Night Darkens

John Milton

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And, When Night Darkens The Streets, Then Wander Forth The Sons Of Belial, Flown With Insolence And Wine.

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My Sentence Is For Open War.

From Morn To Noon He Fell, From Noon To Dewy Eve,- A Summer's Day; And With The Setting Sun Dropp'd From The Zenith Like A Falling Star.

Here We May Reign Secure; And In My Choice To Reign Is Worth Ambition, Though In Hell: Better To Reign In Hell Than Serve In Heaven.

Fairy Damsels Met In Forest Wide / By Knights Of Logres, Or Of Lyones, / Lancelot Or Pelleas, Or Pellenore.

Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining.

O Madness To Think Use Of Strongest Wines And Strongest Drinks Our Chief Support Of Health, When God With These Forbidden Made Choice To Rear His Mighty Champion, Strong Above Compare, Whose Drink Was Only From The Liquid Brook.

But Oh The Heavy Change, Now Thou Art Gone, Now Thou Art Gone And Never Must Return!

We Should Be Wary What Persecution We Raise Against The Living Labors Of Public Men, How We Spill That Seasoned Life Of Man, Preserved And Stored Up In Books, Since We See A Kind Of Homicide May Be Thus Committed, Sometimes A Martyrdom; And If It Extend To The Whole Impression, A Kind Of Massacre, Whereof The Execution Ends Not In The Slaying Of An Elemental Life, But Strikes At The Ethereal And Fifth Essence, The Breath Of Reason Itself; Slays An Immortality Rather Than A Life.

The Very Essence Of Truth Is Plainness And Brightness; The Darkness And Crookedness Is Our Own. The Wisdom Of God Created Understanding, Fit And Proportionable To Truth, The Object And End Of It, As The Eye To The Thing Visible. If Our Understanding Have A Film Of Ignorance Over It, Or Be Blear With Gazing On Other False Glitterings, What Is That To Truth?

My Heart Contains Of Good, Wise, Just, The Perfect Shape.

Straight Mine Eye Hath Caught New Pleasures Whilst The Landscape Round It Measures, Russet Lawns And Fallows Grey, Where The Nibbling Flocks Do Stray, Mountains On Whose Barren Breast The Labouring Clouds Do Often Rest; Meadows Trim With Daisies Pied, Shallow Brooks, And Rivers Wide.

Her Silent Course Advance With Inoffensive Pace, That Spinning Sleeps On Her Soft Axle.

This Horror Will Grow Mild, This Darkness Light; Besides What Hope The Never-ending Flight Of Future Days May Bring, What Chance, What Change Worth Waiting--since Our Present Lot Appears For Happy Though But Ill, For Ill Not Worst, If We Procure Not To Ourselves More Woe.

Flowers Of All Hue, And Without Thorn The Rose.

Paradise On Earth

And Pomp, And Feast, And Revelry, With Mask, And Antique Pageantry, Such Sights As Youthful Poets Dream On Summer Eves By Haunted Stream.

Hung Over Her Enamour'd, And Beheld Beauty, Which, Whether Waking Or Asleep, Shot Forth Peculiar Graces.

His Spear, To Equal Which The Tallest Pine Hewn On Norwegian Hills To Be The Mast Of Some Great Ammiral Were But A Wand, He Walk'd With To Support Uneasy Steps Over The Burning Marle.

Who Overcomes By Force, Hath Overcome But Half His Foe.

Should God Create Another Eve, And I Another Rib Afford, Yet Loss Of Thee Would Never From My Heart; No No, I Feel The Link Of Nature Draw Me: Flesh Of Flesh, Bone Of My Bone Thou Art, And From Thy State Mine Never Shall Be Parted, Bliss Or Woe.

And Pomp, And Feast, And Revelry, With Mask, And Antique Pageantry, Such Sights As Youthful Poets Dream On Summer Eves By Haunted Stream. Then To The Well-trod Stage Anon, If Jonson's Learned Sock Be On, Or Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child, Warble His Native Wood-notes Wild, And Ever, Against Eating Cares, Lap Me In Soft Lydian Airs, Married To Immortal Verse Such As The Meeting Soul May Pierce, In Notes With Many A Winding Bout Of Linked Sweetness Long Drawn Out.

What Reinforcement We May Gain From Hope; If Not, What Resolution From Despair.

Among The Writers Of All Ages, Some Deserve Fame, And Have It; Others Neither Have Nor Deserve It; Some Have It, Not Deserving It; Others, Though Deserving It, Yet Totally Miss It, Or Have It Not Equal To Their Deserts.

It Was The Winter Wild, While The Heaven-born Child, All Meanly Wrapt In The Rude Manger Lies.

Sole Reigning Holds The Tyranny Of Heav'n.

Paradise Lost Book 1

Awake, Arise Or Be For Ever Fall’n.

O Sun, To Tell Thee How I Hate Thy Beams That Bring To My Remembrance From What State I Fell, How Glorious Once Above Thy Sphere.

The Sun To Me Is Dark And Silent As The Moon, When She Deserts The Night Hid In Her Vacant Interlunar Cave.

O Impotence Of Mind, In Body Strong! But What Is Strength Without A Double Share Of Wisdom, Vast, Unwieldy, Burdensome, Proudly Secure, Yet Liable To Fall By Weakest Subtleties, Not Made To Rule, But To Subserve Where Wisdom Bears Command.

A Poet Soaring In The High Reason Of His Fancies, With His Garland And Singing Robes About Him.

And On The Tree Of Life, The Middle Tree And Highest There That Grew, Sat Like A Cormorant.

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.

A Death-like Sleep, A Gentle Wafting To Immortal Life.

In The Sweat Of Thy Face Thou Shalt Eat Bread, Till Thou Return Unto The Ground; For Thou Out Of The Ground Wast Taken; Know Thy Birth, For Dust Thou Art, And Shalt To Dust Return.

Thou Art My Father, Thou My Author, Thou My Being Gav'st Me; Whom Should I Obey But Thee, Whom Follow?

Sweet Is The Breath Of Morn, Her Rising Sweet, With Charm Of Earliest Birds.

That Virtue Therefore Which Is But A Youngling In The Contemplation Of Evil, And Knows Not The Utmost That Vice Promises To Her Followers, And Rejects It, Is But A Blank Virtue, Not A Pure; Her Whiteness Is But An Excremental Whiteness.

From His Lips/not Words Alone Pleased Her.

Now Came Still Evening On, And Twilight Gray Had In Her Sober Livery All Things Clad; Silence Accompany'd; For Beast And Bird, They To Their Grassy Couch, These To Their Nests, Were Slunk, All But The Wakeful Nightingale; She All Night Long Her Amorous Descant Sung; Silence Was Pleas'd. Now Glow'd The Firmament With Living Sapphires; Hesperus, That Led The Starry Host, Rode Brightest, Till The Moon, Rising In Clouded Majesty, At Length Apparent Queen Unveil'd Her Peerless Light, And O'er The Dark Her Silver Mantle Threw.

For Liberty Hath A Sharp And Double Edge, Fit Only To Be Handled By Just And Virtuous Men; To Bad And Dissolute, It Becomes A Mischief Unwieldy In Their Own Hands.

Apt Words Have Power To Suage The Tumors Of A Troubled Mind.

Most Men Admire Virtue Who Follow Not Her Lore.

I Will Not Allow My Daughters To Learn Foreign Languages Because One Tongue Is Sufficient For A Woman.

But What More Oft In Nations Grown Corrupt, And By Their Vices Brought To Servitude, Than To Love Bondage More Than Liberty, Bondage With Ease Than Strenuous Liberty.

What Better Can We Do Than Prostrate Fall Before Him Reverent, And There Confess Humbly Our Faults, And Pardon Beg With Tears Watering The Ground?

In Dim Eclipse, Disastrous Twilight Sheds On Half The Nations, And With Fear Of Change Perplexes Monarchs.

Rich And Various Gems Inlay The Unadorned Bosom Of The Deep.

Gratitude Bestows Reverence.....changing Forever How We Experience Life And The World.

These Evils I Deserve, And More . . . . Justly, Yet Despair Not Of His Final Pardon, Whose Ear Is Ever Open, And His Eye Gracious To Re-admit The Suppliant.

With Cowslips Wan That Hang The Pensive Head, And Every Flower That Sad Embroidery Wears.

Few Sometimes May Know, When Thousands Err.

If The Will, Which In The Law Of Our Nature, Were Withdrawn From Our Memory, Fancy, Understanding, And Reason, No Other Hell Could Equal, For A Spiritual Being, What We Should Then Feel From The Anarchy Of Our Powers. It Would Be Conscious Madness,--a Horrid Thought!

So Dear To Heaven Is Saintly Chastity, That, When A Soul Is Found Sincerely So, A Thousand Liveried Angels Lacky Her, Driving Far Off Each Thing Of Sin And Guilt.

Immediate Are The Acts Of God, More Swift Than Time Or Motion.

Heaven, The Seat Of Bliss, Brooks Not The Works Of Violence And War.

Time, Though In Eternity, Applied To Motion, Measures All Things Durable By Present, Past, And Future.

Let Us Go Forth And Resolutely Dare With Sweat Of Brow To Toil Our Little Day.

Hard Are The Ways Of Truth, And Rough To Walk.

I Cannot Praise A Fugitive And Cloistered Virtue, Unexercised And Unbreathed, That Never Sallies Out And Sees Her Adversary, But Slinks Out Of The Race Where That Immortal Garland Is To Be Run For, Not Without Dust And Heat.

The Superior Man Acquaints Himself With Many Sayings Of Antiquity And Many Deeds Of The Past, In Order To Strengthen His Character Thereby.

Hail, Wedded Love, Mysterious Law; True Source Of Human Happiness.

Which Way I Fly Is Hell; Myself Am Hell.

Of Man's First Disobedience, And The Fruit/of That Forbidden Tree, Whose Mortal Taste/brought Death Into The World, And All Our Woe,/with Loss Of Eden, Till One Greater Man/restore Us, And Regain The Blissful Seat,/sing Heavenly Muse

As In An Organ From One Blast Of Wind To Many A Row Of Pipes The Soundboard Breathes.

And The Earth Self-balanced On Her Centre Hung.

I On The Other Side Us'd No Ambition To Commend My Deeds; The Deeds Themselves, Though Mute, Spoke Loud The Doer.

Knowledge Cannot Defile, Nor Consequently The Books, If The Will And Conscience Be Not Defiled.

To Be Blind Is Not Miserable; Not To Be Able To Bear Blindness, That Is Miserable.

Let No Man Seek Henceforth To Be Foretold That Shall Befall Him Or His Children.

Consider First, That Great Or Bright Infers Not Excellence.

Such Joy Ambition Finds.

And Fast By, Hanging In A Golden Chain, This Pendent World, In Bigness As A Star Of Smallest Magnitude, Close By The Moon.

Is It True, O Christ In Heaven, That The Highest Suffer The Most? That The Strongest Wander Furthest And Most Hopelessly Are Lost? That The Mark Of Rank In Nature Is Capacity For Pain? That The Anguish Of The Singer Makes The Sweetness Of The Strain?

Wherefore Did He [god] Create Passions Within Us, Pleasures Round About Us, But That These Rightly Tempered Are The Very Ingredients Of Virtue?

Assuredly We Bring Not Innocence Not The World, We Bring Impurity Much Rather: That Which Purifies Us Is Trial, And Trial Is By What Is Contrary.

The World Was All Before Them, Where To Choose Their Place Of Rest, And Providence Their Guide: They Hand In Hand, With Wandering Steps And Slow, Through Eden Took Their Solitary Way.

Evil, Be Thou My Good.

Th' Imperial Ensign, Which Full High Advanc'd Shone Like A Meteor, Streaming To The Wind.

Forget Thyself To Marble.

Darkness Now Rose, As Daylight Sunk, And Brought In Low'ring Night Her Shadowy Offspring.

Fairest Of Stars, Last In The Train Of Night, If Better Thou Belong Not To The Dawn.

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.

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; But Prayer Against His Absolute Decree No More Avails Than Breath Against The Wind Blown Stifling Back On Him That Breathes It Forth: Therefore To His Great Bidding I Submit.

In Contemplation Of Created Things, By Steps We May Ascend To God.

Can Any Mortal Mixture Of Earth's Mould Breathe Such Divine Enchanting Ravishment?

Yet Beauty, Though Injurious, Hath Strange Power, After Offence Returning, To Regain Love Once Possess'd.

Yet Hold It More Humane, More Heav'nly, First, By Winning Words To Conquer Willing Hearts, And Make Persuasion Do The Work Of Fear.

These Are Thy Glorious Works Parent Of Good, Almighty, Thine This Universal Frame, Thus Wondrous Fair; Thy Self How Wondrous Then! Unspeakable, Who Sitst Above These Heavens To Us Invisible Or Dimly Seen In These Thy Lowest Works, Yet These Declare Thy Goodness Beyond Thought, And Power Divine: Speak Ye Who Best Can Tell, Ye Sons Of Light, Angels, For Ye Behold Him, And With Songs And Choral Symphonies, Day Without Night, Circle His Throne Rejoicing, Ye In Heav'n, On Earth Join All Ye Creatures To Extoll Him First, Him Last, Him Midst, And Without End.

For So I Created Them Free And Free They Must Remain.

Yet Some There Be That By Due Steps Aspire To Lay Their Just Hands On That Golden Key That Opes The Palace Of Eternity.

Equally Inured By Moderation Either State To Bear, Prosperous Or Adverse.

Swinish Gluttony Never Looks To Heaven Amidst Its Gorgeous Feast; But With Besotted, Base Ingratitude, Cravens And Blasphemes His Feeder.

Nor Jealousy Was Understood, The Injur'd Lover's Hell.

Live While Ye May, Yet Happy Pair.

Virtue That Wavers Is Not Virtue.

So He With Difficulty And Labour Hard Mov'd On, With Difficulty And Labour He.

The Childhood Shows The Man, As Morning Shows The Day.

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.

By Night The Glass Of Galileo ... Observes Imagin'd Land And Regions In The Moon.

And Looks Commercing With The Skies, Thy Rapt Soul Sitting In Thine Eyes.

Pandemonium, The High Capital Of Satan And His Peers.

The Martyrs Shook The Powers Of Darkness With The Irresistible Power Of Weakness.

I Sat Me Down To Watch Upon A Bank With Ivy Canopied And Interwove With Flaunting Honeysuckle.

'paradise Lost' Is One Of The Books Which The Reader Admires And Lays Down, And Forgets To Take Up Again. None Ever Wished It Longer Than It Is.

Fame Is The Spur That The Clear Spirit Doth Raise. That Last Infirmity Of Noble Mind. To Scorn Delights, And Live Laborious Days.

Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself Would Stoop To Her.

But That From Us Aught Should Ascend To Heav'n So Prevalent As To Concern The Mind Of God, High-bless'd, Or To Incline His Will, Hard To Belief May Seem; Yet This Will Prayer.

Our Torments Also May In Length Of Time Become Our Elements.

From That High Mount Of God Whence Light And Shade Spring Both, The Face Of Brightest Heaven Had Changed To Grateful Twilight.

And Sing To Those That Hold The Vital Shears; And Turn The Adamantine Spindle Round, On Which The Fate Of Gods And Men Is Wound.

Unless An Age Too Late, Or Cold Climate, Or Years, Damp My Intended Wing.

Among Unequals What Society Can Sort, What Harmony, Or True Delight?

Into This Wild Abyss, The Womb Of Nature And Perhaps Her Grave.

Come And Trip It As Ye Go On The Light Fantastic Toe.

That Practis'd Falsehood Under Saintly Shew, Deep Malice To Conceal, Couch'd With Revenge.

The Oracles Are Dumb, No Voice Or Hideous Hum Runs Through The Arched Roof In Words Deceiving. Apollo From His Shrine Can No More Divine, With Hollow Shriek The Steep Of Delphos Leaving. No Nightly Trance Or Breathed Spell Inspires The Pale-eyed Priest From The Prophetic Cell.

What Hath Night To Do With Sleep?

Death Ready Stands To Interpose His Dart.

I Will Point Ye Out The Right Path Of A Virtuous And Noble Education; Laborious Indeed At First Ascent, But Else So Smooth, So Green, So Full Of Goodly Prospect, And Melodious Sounds On Every Side, That The Harp Of Orpheus Was Not More Charming.

If There Be Any Difference Among Professed Believers As To The Sense Of Scripture, It Is Their Duty To Tolerate Such Difference In Each Other, Until God Shall Have Revealed The Truth To All.

God Doth Not Need Either Man's Work Or His Own Gifts. 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.

And Join With Thee Calm Peace And Quiet, Spare Fast, That Oft With Gods Doth Diet.

To Know That Which Lies Before Us In Daily Life Is The Prime Wisdom.

Temper Justice With Mercy.

And, Re-assembling Our Afflicted Powers, Consult How We May Henceforth Most Offend.

The Gay Motes That People The Sunbeams.

Me Miserable! Which Way Shall I Fly Infinite Wrath And Infinite Despair? Which Way I Fly Is Hell; Myself Am Hell; And In The Lowest Deep A Lower Deep, Still Threat'ning To Devour Me, Opens Wide, To Which The Hell I Suffer Seems A Heaven.

Where All Life Dies Death Lives.

Truth And Understanding Are Not Such Wares As To Be Monopolized And Traded In By Tickets And Statutes And Standards. We Must Not Think To Make A Staple Commodity Of All The Knowledge In The Land, To Mark And License It Like Our Broadcloth And Our Woolpacks.

Indu'd With Sanctity Of Reason.

Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye, While The Bee With Honied Thigh, That At Her Flowery Work Doth Sing, And The Waters Murmuring With Such Consort As They Keep, Entice The Dewy-feathered Sleep.

Faithful Found Among The Faithless.

Avenge, O Lord, Thy Slaughtered Saints, Whose Bones Lie Scattered On The Alpine Mountains Cold; Ev'n Them Who Kept Thy Truth So Pure Of Old When All Our Fathers Worshipped Stocks And Stones Forget Not.

God Has Set Labor And Rest, As Day And Night To Men Successive.

Angels Contented With Their Face In Heaven, Seek Not The Praise Of Men.

He Scarce Had Ceased When The Superior Fiend Was Moving Toward The Shore; His Ponderous Shield Ethereal Temper, Massy, Large And Round, Behind Him Cast; The Broad Circumference Hung On His Shoulders Like The Moon, Whose Orb Through Optic Glass The Tuscan Artist Views At Evening From The Top Of Fésolè, Or In Valdarno, To Descry New Lands, Rivers Or Mountains In Her Spotty Globe.

Till Old Experience Do Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

With Thee Conversing I Forget All Time.

None But Such As Are Good Men Can Give Good Things, And That Which Is Not Good, Is Not Delicious To A Well-govern'd And Wise Appetite.

Thus With The Year Seasons Return; But Not To Me Returns Day, Or The Sweet Approach Of Even Or Morn, Or Sight Of Vernal Bloom Or Summer's Rose, Or Flocks, Or Herds, Or Human Face Divine; But Cloud Instead, And Ever-during Dark Surrounds Me; From The Cheerful Ways Of Men Cut Off, And For The Book Of Knowledge Fair Presented With A Universal Blank Of Nature's Works, To Me Expung'd And Raz'd, And Wisdom At One Entrance Quite Shut Out.

It Is Not Hard For Any Man Who Hath A Bible In His Hand To Borrow Good Words And Holy Sayings In Abundance; But To Make Them His Own Is A Work Of Grace Only From Above.

Law Can Discover Sin, But Not Remove, Save By Those Shadowy Expiations Weak.

The Childhood Shows The Man As Morning Shows The Day. Be Famous Then By Wisdom; As Thy Empire Must Extend, So Let Extend Thy Mind O'er All The World.

Untwisting All The Chains That Tie The Hidden Soul Of Harmony.

Rocks Whereon Greatest Men Have Oftest Wreck'd.

Midnight Brought On The Dusky Hour Friendliest To Sleep And Silence.

Knowledge Forbidden? Suspicious, Reasonless. Why Should Their Lord Envy Them That? Can It Be A Sin To Know? Can It Be Death?

Sport, That Wrinkled Care Derides, And Laughter Holding Both His Sides. Come And Trip It As Ye Go, On The Light Fantastic Toe.

Impostor; Do Not Charge Most Innocent Nature, As If She Would Her Children Should Be Riotous With Her Abundance; She, Good Cateress, Means Her Provision Only To The Good, That Live According To Her Sober Laws, And Holy Dictate Of Spare Temperance.

They Who Have Put Out The People's Eyes Reproach Them Of Their Blindness.

We Shall Sooner Have The Fowl By Hatching The Egg Than By Smashing It. Abraham Lincoln, White House Speech 11 April 1865. Or Arm Th' Obdured Breast With Stubborn Patience As With Triple Steel.

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed.

Be Strong, Live Happy And Love, But First Of All Him Whom To Love Is To Obey, And Keep His Great Command!

And, When Night Darkens The Streets, Then Wander Forth The Sons Of Belial, Flown With Insolence And Wine.

Solitude Is Sometimes Best Society.

The Virtuous Mind That Ever Walks Attended By A Strong Siding Champion, Conscience.

Antichrist Is Mammon's Son.

Therefore God's Universal Law Gave To The Man Despotic Power Over His Female In Due Awe, Not From That Right To Part An Hour, Smile She Or Lour.

Fame Is The Last Infirmity Of The Human Mind.

None Can Love Freedom Heartily, But Good Men; The Rest Love Not Freedom, But License.

Luck Is The Residue Of Design.

Deep Vers'd In Books, And Shallow In Himself.

Believe And Be Confirmed.

What Am I Pondering, You Ask? So Help Me God, Immortality.

But When Lust By Unchaste Looks, Loose Gestures, And Foul Talk, But Most By Lewd And Lavish Arts Of Sin, Lets In Defilement To The Inward Parts, The Soul Grows Clotted By Contagion, Imbodies And Imbrutes, Till She Quite Lose The Divine Property Of Her First Being.

I Did But Prompt The Age To Quit Their Clogs By The Known Rules Of Ancient Liberty, When Straight A Barbarous Noise Environs Me Of Owls And Cuckoos, Asses, Apes And Dogs.

These Eyes, Tho' Clear To Outward View Of Blemish Or Of Spot, Bereft Of Light, Their Seeing Have Forgot, Nor To Their Idle Orbs Doth Sight Appear Of Sun, Or Moon, Or Star, Throughout The Year, Or Man, Or Woman. Yet I Argue Not Against Heaven's Hand Or Will, Not Bate A Jot Of Heart Or Hope; But Still Bear Up And Steer Right Onward.

It Was From Out The Rind Of One Apple Tasted, That The Knowledge Of Good And Evil, As Two Twins Cleaving Together, Leaped Forth Into The World.

No Worthy Enterprise Can Be Done By Us Without Continual Plodding And Wearisomeness To Our Faint And Sensitive Abilities.

Let Us Descend Now Therefore From This Top Of Speculation.

Thou Canst Not Touch The Freedom Of My Mind.

To Live A Life Half Dead, A Living Death.

For Books Are As Meats And Viands Are; Some Of Good, Some Of Evil Sub-stance.

Solitude Sometimes Is Best Society.

It Is For Homely Features To Keep Home,- They Had Their Name Thence; Coarse Complexions And Cheeks Of Sorry Grain Will Serve To Ply The Sampler And To Tease The Huswife's Wool. What Need A Vermeil-tinctur'd Lip For That, Love-darting Eyes, Or Tresses Like The Morn?

Pleas'd Me, Long Choosing And Beginning Late.

Paradise Lost Book 9

Thick As Autumnal Leaves That Strow The Brooks In Vallombrosa, Where Th' Etrurian Shades High Over-arch'd Imbower.

... Then There Was War In Heaven. But It Was Not Angels. It Was That Small Golden Zeppelin, Like A Long Oval World, High Up. It Seemed As If The Cosmic Order Were Gone, As If There Had Come A New Order, A New Heavens Above Us: And As If The World In Anger Were Trying To Revoke It.

Or Bid The Soul Of Orpheus Sing Such Notes As, Warbled To The String, Drew Iron Tears Down Pluto's Cheek.

On A Sudden Open Fly With Impetuous Recoil And Jarring Sound Th' Infernal Doors, And On Their Hinges Grate Harsh Thunder.

Have Hung My Dank And Dropping Weeds To The Stern God Of Sea.

O Fairest Flower! No Sooner Blown But Blasted, Soft Silken Primrose Fading Timelessly.

Wickedness Is Weakness.

Sweet Bird That Shunn'st The Nose Of Folly, Most Musical, Most Melancholy! Thee, Chauntress, Oft, The Woods Among, I Woo, To Hear Thy Even-song.

Thy Actions To Thy Words Accord; Thy Words To Thy Large Heart Give Utterance Due; Thy Heart; Contains Of Good, Wise, Just, The Perfect Shape.

Hell Has No Benefits, Only Torture.

One Sip Of This Will Bathe The Drooping Spirits In Delight, Beyond The Bliss Of Dreams.

So Dear I Love Him, That With Him, All Deaths I Could Endure, Without Him, Live No Life.

Love-quarrels Oft In Pleasing Concord End.

I Will Not Deny But That The Best Apology Against False Accusers Is Silence And Sufferance, And Honest Deeds Set Against Dishonest Words.

Wealth And Honours, Which Most Men Pursue, Easily Change Masters; They Desert To The Side Which Excels In Virtue, Industry, And Endurance Of Toil, And They Abandon The Slothful.

A Man May Be Ungrateful, But The Human Race Is Not So.

Our Torments Also May In Length Of Time Become Our Elements, These Piercing Fires As Soft As Now Severe, Our Temper Changed Into Their Temper.

Love Virtue, She Alone Is Free, She Can Teach Ye How To Climb Higher Than The Sphery Chime; Or, If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself Would Stoop To Her.

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.

God Is Decreeing To Begin Some Newand Great Period In His Church, Even To The Reforming Of Reformation Itself. What Does He Then But Reveal Himself To His Servants, And As His Manner Is, First To His Englishmen?

What Neat Repast Shall Feast Us, Light And Choice, Of Attic Taste?

Virtue Could See To Do What Virtue Would By Her Own Radiant Light, Though Sun And Moon Where In The Flat Sea Sunk.

Freely They Stood Who Stood, And Fell Who Fell.

I Must Not Quarrel With The Will Of Highest Dispensation, Which Herein, Haply Had Ends Above My Reach To Know.

There Is No Christian Duty That Is Not To Be Seasoned And Set Off With Cheerishness, Which In A Thousand Outward And Intermitting Crosses May Yet Be Done Well, As In This Vale Of Tears.

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