Background Image

...

By This Time, Like One Who Had Set Out On His Way By Night, And Travelled Through A Region Of Smooth Or Idle Dreams, Our History Now Arrives On The Confines, Where Daylight And Truth Meet Us With A Clear Dawn, Representing To Our View, Though At A Far Distance, True Colours And Shapes.

-John Milton

...

Please Wait....
Translating....

By This Time, Like

John Milton

...

By This Time, Like One Who Had Set Out On His Way By Night, And Travelled Through A Region Of Smooth Or Idle Dreams, Our History Now Arrives On The Confines, Where Daylight And Truth Meet Us With A Clear Dawn, Representing To Our View, Though At A Far Distance, True Colours And Shapes.

Views: 7

Topic

More From John Milton

Him That Yon Soars On Golden Wing, Guiding The Fiery-wheelèd Throne, The Cherub Contemplation.

The Spirits Perverse With Easy Intercourse Pass To And Fro, To Tempt Or Punish Mortals.

So Spake The Seraph Abdiel, Faithful Found; Among The Faithless, Faithful Only He.

For Stories Teach Us, That Liberty Sought Out Of Season, In A Corrupt And Degenerate Age, Brought Rome Itself To A Farther Slavery: 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: Neither Is It Completely Given, But By Them Who Have The Happy Skill To Know What Is Grievance And Unjust To A People, And How To Remove It Wisely; What Good Laws Are Wanting, And How To Frame Them Substantially, That Good Men May Enjoy The Freedom Which They Merit, And The Bad The Curb Which They Need.

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.

Good, The More Communicated, More Abundant Grows.

Neither Prosperity Nor Empire Nor Heaven Can Be Worth Winning At The Price Of A Virulent Temper, Bloody Hands, An Anguished Spirit, And A Vain Hatred Of The Rest Of The World.

The Pilot Of The Galilean Lake; Two Massy Keys He Bore, Of Metals Twain (the Golden Opes, The Iron Shuts Amain).

Wisdom's Self Oft Seeks To Sweet Retired Solitude, Where With Her Best Nurse Contemplation, She Plumes Her Feathers, And Lets Grow Her Wings That In The Various Bustle Of Resort Were All To-ruffled, And Sometimes Impaired.

Into This Wild Abyss/ The Womb Of Nature, And Perhaps Her Grave--/ Of Neither Sea, Nor Shore, Nor Air, Nor Fire,/ But All These In Their Pregnant Causes Mixed/ Confusedly, And Which Thus Must Ever Fight,/ Unless The Almighty Maker Them Ordain/ His Dark Materials To Create More Worlds,--/ Into This Wild Abyss The Wary Fiend/ Stood On The Brink Of Hell And Looked A While,/ Pondering His Voyage; For No Narrow Frith/ He Had To Cross.

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.

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

Take Heed Lest Passion Sway Thy Judgement To Do Aught, Which Else Free Will Would Not Admit.

Hate Is Of All Things The Mightiest Divider, Nay, Is Division Itself. To Couple Hatred, Therefore, Though Wedlock Try All Her Golden Links, And Borrow To Tier Aid All The Iron Manacles And Fetters Of Law, It Does But Seek To Twist A Rope Of Sand.

How Wearisom Eternity So Spent In Worship Paid To Whom We Hate. Let Us Not Then Pursue By Force Impossible, By Leave Obtain'd Unacceptable, Though In Heav'n, Our State Of Splendid Vassalage, But Rather Seek Our Own Good From Our Selves, And From Our Own Live To Our Selves, Though In This Vast Recess, Free, And To None Accountable, Preferring Hard Liberty Before The Easie Yoke Of Servile Pomp

The Winds With Wonder Whist, Smoothly The Waters Kisst.

Implied Subjection, But Requir'd With Gentle Sway, And By Her Yielded, By Him Best Receiv'd,- Yielded With Coy Submission, Modest Pride, And Sweet, Reluctant, Amorous Delay.

Money Brings Honor, Friends, Conquest, And Realms.

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.

(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.

He That Can Apprehend And Consider Vice With All Her Baits And Seeming Pleasures, And Yet Abstain, And Yet Distinguish, And Yet Prefer That Which Is Truly Better, He Is The True Wayfaring Christian. 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. Assuredly We Bring Not Innocence Into The World, We Bring Impurity Much Rather: That Which Purifies Us Is Trial, And Trial Is By What Is Contrary.

. . . For Beauty Stands In The Admiration Only Of Weak Minds Led Captive. Cease To Admire, And All Her Plumes Fall Flat And Shrink Into A Trivial Toy, At Every Sudden Slighting Quite Abash'd.

He Touch'd The Tender Stops Of Various Quills, With Eager Thought Warbling His Doric Lay.

Anarchy Is The Sure Consequence Of Tyranny; For No Power That Is Not Limited By Laws Can Ever Be Protected By Them.

Innocence, Once Lost, Can Never Be Regained. Darkness, Once Gazed Upon, Can Never Be Lost.

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

Calm Of Mind, All Passion Spent.

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.

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.

Spirits When They Please Can Either Sex Assume, Or Both.

Farewell Hope, And With Hope Farewell Fear

Paradise Lost Book 9

Where Peace And Rest Can Never Dwell, Hope Never Comes, That Comes To All.

If This Fail, The Pillar'd Firmament Is Rottenness, And Earth's Base Built On Stubble.

Such As The Meeting Soul May Pierce, In Notes With Many A Winding Bout Of Linked Sweetness Long Drawn Out.

The Wife, Where Danger Or Dishonour Lurks, Safest And Seemliest By Her Husband Stays, Who Guards Her, Or With Her The Worst Endures.

With Diadem And Sceptre High Advanced, The Lower Still I Fall; Only Supreme In Misery; Such Joy Ambition Finds.

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.

Son Of Heav'n And Earth, Attend: That Thou Art Happy, Owe To God; That Thou Continuest Such, Owe To Thyself, That Is, To Thy Obedience; Therein Stand.

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

Let Not England Forget Her Precedence Of Teaching Nations How To Live.

And Storied Windows Richly Dight, Casting A Dim Religious Light.

To Overcome In Battle, And Subdue Nations, And Bring Home Spoils With Infinite Man-slaughter, Shall Be Held The Highest Pitch Of Human Glory.

There Swift Return Diurnal, Merely To Officiate Light Round This Opacous Earth, This Punctual Spot.

Her Virtue And The Conscience Of Her Worth, That Would Be Woo'd, And Not Unsought Be Won.

Say, Heavenly Pow'rs, Where Shall We Find Such Love? Which Of Ye Will Be Mortal To Redeem Man's Mortal Crime, And Just Th' Unjust To Save.

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

So Farewell Hope, And With Hope Farewell Fear,farewell Remorse: All Good To Me Is Lost;evil,be Thou My Good.

And Grace That Won Who Saw To Wish Her Stay.

Who Reads Incessantly, And To His Reading Brings Not A Spirit And Judgment Equal Or Superior, (and What He Brings What Need He Elsewhere Seek?) Uncertain And Unsettled Still Remains, Deep Versed In Books And Shallow In Himself, Crude Or Intoxicate, Collecting Toys And Trifles For Choice Matters, Worth A Sponge, As Children Gathering Pebbles On The Shore.

And Feel That I Am Happier Than I Know.

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.

He That Hath Light Within Their Own Breast, May Sit In The Centre And Enjoy Bright Day.

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

And These Gems Of Heav'n, Her Starry Train.

The Great Emathian Conqueror Bid Spare The House Of Pindarus, When Temple And Tower Went To The Ground.

Fame, If Not Double Fac'd, Is Double Mouth'd, And With Contrary Blast Proclaims Most Deeds; On Both His Wings, One Black, The Other White, Bears Greatest Names In His Wild Aery Flight.

Demoniac Frenzy, Moping Melancholy.

Heaven Open'd Wide Her Ever During Gates, Harmonious Sound, On Golden Hinges Moving.

For Such Kind Of Borrowing As This, If It Be Not Bettered By The Borrowers, Among Good Authors Is Accounted Plagiarè.

The Greatest Burden In The World Is Superstition, Not Only Of Ceremonies In The Church, But Of Imaginary And Scarecrow Sins At Home.

By This Time, Like One Who Had Set Out On His Way By Night, And Travelled Through A Region Of Smooth Or Idle Dreams, Our History Now Arrives On The Confines, Where Daylight And Truth Meet Us With A Clear Dawn, Representing To Our View, Though At A Far Distance, True Colours And Shapes.

Such Sober Certainty Of Waking Bliss.

In Physic, Things Of Melancholic Hue And Quality Are Used Against Melancholy, Sour Against Sour, Salt To Remove Salt Humors.

How Soon Hath Time, The Subtle Thief Of Youth, Stolen On His Wing My Three-and-twentieth Year!

And The Jocund Rebecks Sound To Many A Youth, And Many A Maid, Dancing In The Checkered Shade. And Young And Old Come Forth To Play On A Sunshine Holiday.

Virtue, Which Breaks Through Opposition And All Temptation Can Remove, Most Shines, And Most Is Acceptable Above.

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

Sweet Intercourse Of Looks And Smiles; For Smiles From Reason Flow.

See Golden Days, Fruitful Of Golden Deeds, With Joy And Love Triumphing.

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

So Little Knows Any, But God Alone, But Perverts Best Things To Worst Abuse, Or To Their Meanest Use.

These Are Thy Glorious Works, Parent Of Good!

Consider First, That Great Or Bright Infers Not Excellence.

In Argument With Men A Woman Ever Goes By The Worse, Whatever Be Her Cause.

At His Birth A Star, Unseen Before In Heaven, Proclaims Him Come.

Who, As They Sung, Would Take The Prison'd Soul And Lap It In Elysium.

Morn, Wak'd By The Circling Hours, With Rosy Hand Unbarr'd The Gates Of Light.

Seasoned Life Of Man Preserved And Stored Up In Books.

Our Reason Is Our Law.

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.

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

The Leaf Was Darkish, And Had Prickles On It, But In Another Country, As He Said, Bore A Bright Golden Flow'r, But Not In This Soil; Unknown, And Like Esteem'd, And The Dull Swain Treads On It Daily With His Clouted Shoon.

Imparadis'd In One Another's Arms.

This Is Servitude, To Serve Th'unwise, Or Him Who Hath Rebelled Against His Worthier, As Thine Now Serve Thee, Thyself Not Free, But To Thyself Enthralled.

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.

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.

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?

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

Behold Now This Vast City [london]; A City Of Refuge, The Mansion-house Of Liberty, Encompassed And Surrounded With His Protection.

God Is Thy Law, Thou Mine: To Know No More Is Woman's Happiest Knowledge And Her Praise. With Thee Conversing I Forget All Time.

And So Sepúlchred In Such Pomp Dost Lie, That Kings For Such A Tomb Would Wish To Die.

Servant Of God, Well Done! Well Hast Thou Fought The Better Fight, Who Single Hast Maintain'd Against Revolted Multitudes The Cause Of Truth.

Come To The Sunset Tree! The Day Is Past And Gone; The Woodman's Axe Lies Free, And The Reaper's Work Is Done.

The Planets In Their Station List'ning Stood.

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed.

Thrones, Dominions, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers-- If These Magnific Titles Yet Remain Not Merely Titular.

The End Then Of Learning Is To Repair The Ruins Of Our First Parents By Regaining To Know God Aright, And Out Of That Knowledge To Love Him, To Imitate Him, To Be Like Him, As We May The Nearest By Possessing Our Souls Of True Virtue, Which Being United To The Heavenly Grace Of Faith Makes Up The Highest Perfection.

Zeal And Duty Are Not Slow But On Occasion's Forelock Watchful Wait.

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

Fairy Elves, Whose Midnight Revels By A Forest Side Or Fountain Some Belated Peasant Sees, Or Dreams He Sees, While Overhead The Moon Sits Arbitress.

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.

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

Ease Would Recant Vows Made In Pain, As Violent And Void.

Was I Deceiv'd, Or Did A Sable Cloud Turn Forth Her Silver Lining On The Night?

Here The Great Art Lies, To Discern In What The Law Is To Be To Restraint And Punishment, And In What Things Persuasion Only Is To Work.

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.

Herbs, And Other Country Messes, Which The Neat-handed Phillis Dresses.

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

Death From Sin No Power Can Separate.

For Truth Is Strong Next To The Almighty. She Needs No Policies Or Stratagems Or Licensings To Make Her Victorious. These Are The Shifts And The Defences That Error Uses Against Her Power.

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

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed, But, Swoln With Wind, And The Rank Mist They Draw, Rot Inwardly, And Foul Contagion Spread: Besides What The Grim Wolf With Privy Paw Daily Devours Apace, And Nothing Said; But That Two-handed Engine At The Door Stands Ready To Smite Once, And Smite No More.

The Timely Dew Of Sleep Now Falling With Soft Slumb'rous Weight Inclines Our Eyelids.

Solitude Sometimes Is Best Society.

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

Good Luck Befriend Thee, Son; For At Thy Birth The Fairy Ladies Danced Upon The Hearth.

With Eyes Of Conjugal Attraction Unreprov'd. Imparadised In One Another's Arms. With Thee Conversing I Forget All Time. And Feel That I Am Happier Than I Know.

True It Is That Covetousness Is Rich, Modesty Starves.

Is It Just Or Reasonable, That Most Voices Against The Main End Of Government Should Enslave The Less Number That Would Be Free? More Just It Is, Doubtless, If It Come To Force, That A Less Number Compel A Greater To Retain, Which Can Be No Wrong To Them, Their Liberty, Than That A Greater Number, For The Pleasure Of Their Baseness, Compel A Less Most Injuriously To Be Their Fellow-slaves. They Who Seek Nothing But Their Own Just Liberty, Have Always Right To Win It And To Keep It, Whenever They Have Power, Be The Voices Never So Numerous That Oppose It.

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

Sole Reigning Holds The Tyranny Of Heav'n.

Paradise Lost Book 1

Anon Out Of The Earth A Fabric Huge Rose, Like An Exhalation.

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

So Hand In Hand They Passed, The Loveliest Pair That Ever Since In Love's Embraces Met -- Adam, The Goodliest Man Of Men Since Born His Sons; The Fairest Of Her Daughters Eve.

Tis Chastity, My Brother, Chastity; She That Has That Is Clad In Complete Steel, And, Like A Quiver'd Nymph With Arrows Keen, May Trace Huge Forests, And Unharbour'd Heaths, Infamous Hills, And Sandy Perilous Wilds; Where, Through The Sacred Rays Of Chastity, No Savage Fierce, Bandite, Or Mountaineer, Will Dare To Soil Her Virgin Purity.

Socrates... Whom Well Inspir'd The Oracle Pronounc'd Wisest Of Men.

To Be Weak Is Miserable, Doing Or Suffering.

Perplexed And Troubled At His Bad Success The Tempter Stood, Nor Had What To Reply, Discovered In His Fraud, Thrown From His Hope.

Suffering For Truth's Sake Is Fortitude To Highest Victory, And To The Faithful Death The Gate Of Life.

Now Morn, Her Rosy Steps In Th' Eastern Clime Advancing, Sow'd The Earth With Orient Pearl, When Adam Wak'd, So Custom'd; For His Sleep Was Aery Light, From Pure Digestion Bred.

But All Was False And Hollow; Though His Tongue Dropp'd Manna, And Could Make The Worse Appear The Better Reason, 4 To Perplex And Dash Maturest Counsels.

So Scented The Grim Feature, And Upturn'd His Nostril Wide Into The Murky Air, Sagacious Of His Quarry From So Far.

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

O Conscience, Into What Abyss Of Fears And Horrors Hast Thou Driven Me, Out Of Which I Find No Way, From Deep To Deeper Plunged.

Fame Is The Last Infirmity Of The Human Mind.

Peace Hath Her Victories, No Less Renowned Than War.

When Complaints Are Freely Heard, Deeply Considered And Speedily Reformed, Then Is The Utmost Bound Of Civil Liberty Attained That Wise Men Look For.

Let Us Seek Death, Or He Not Found, Supply With Our Own Hands His Office On Ourselves; Why Stand We Longer Shivering Under Fears, That Show No End But Death, And Have The Power, Of Many Ways To Die The Shortest Choosing, Destruction With Destruction To Destroy.

To Adore The Conqueror, Who Now Beholds Cherub And Seraph Rolling In The Flood.

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

Anger And Just Rebuke, And Judgment Given, That Brought Into This World A World Of Woe, Sin And Her Shadow Death, And Misery, Death's Harbinger.

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.

How Often From The Steep Of Echoing Hill Or Thicket Have We Heard Celestial Voices To The Midnight Air, Sole, Or Responsive Each To Other's Note, Singing Their Great Creator?

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

To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New.

And 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 Now My Task Is Smoothly Done, I Can Fly, Or I Can Run Quickly To The Green Earth's End, Where The Bow'd Welkin Slow Doth Bend, And From Thence Can Soar As Soon To The Corners Of The Moon.

God Made Thee Perfect, Not Immutable.

Bring The Rathe Primrose That Forsaken Dies, The Tufted Crow-toe, And Pale Gessamine, The White Pink, And The Pansy Freaked With Jet, The Glowing Violet, The Musk-rose, And The Well Attir'd Woodbine, With Cowslips Wan That Hang The Pensive Head, And Every Flower That Sad Embroidery Wears: Bid Amaranthus All His Beauty Shed, And Daffadillies Fill Their Cups With Tears, To Strew The Laureate Hearse Where Lycid Lies.

If We Think We Regulate Printing, Thereby To Rectify Manners, We Must Regulate All Regulations And Pastimes, All That Is Delightful To Man.

Tears Such As Angels Weep.

Moping Melancholy And Moon-struck Madness.

Nothing Lovelier Can Be Found In Woman, Than To Study Household Good, And Good Works In Her Husband To Promote.

Eloquence The Soul, Song Charms The Senses.

Gratitude Bestows Reverence, Allowing Us To Encounter Everyday Epiphanies, Those Transcendent Moments Of Awe That Change Forever How We Experience Life And The World.

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

Ah Gentle Pair, Ye Little Think How Nigh Your Change Approaches, When All These Delights Will Vanish And Deliver Ye To Woe, More Woe, The More Your Taste Is Now Of Joy.

God Shall Be All In All.

Sweet Bird, That Shun The Noise Of Folly, Most Musical, Most Melancholy!

This Manner Of Writing Wherein Knowing Myself Inferior To Myself? I Have The Use, As I May Account It, But Of My Left Hand.

Virtue That Wavers Is Not Virtue, But Vice Revolted From Itself, And After A While Returning. The Actions Of Just And Pious Men Do Not Darken In Their Middle Course.

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

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

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.

Arms On Armour Clashing Bray'd Horrible Discord, And The Madding Wheels Of Brazen Chariots Rag'd: Dire Was The Noise Of Conflict.

Now Conscience Wakes Despair That Slumber'd,-wakes The Bitter Memory Of What He Was, What Is, And What Must Be Worse.

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

Praise From An Enemy Smells Of Craft.

Where No Hope Is Left, Is Left No Fear.

Who Aspires Must Down As Low As High He Soar'd.

Paradise Lost Book 9

Aristotle ... Imputed This Symphony Of The Heavens ... This Music Of The Spheres To Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras Alone Of Mortals Is Said To Have Heard This Harmony ... If Our Hearts Were As Pure, As Chaste, As Snowy As Pythagoras' Was, Our Ears Would Resound And Be Filled With That Supremely Lovely Music Of The Wheeling Stars.

The Other Shape, If Shape It Might Be Call'd That Shape Had None Distinguishable In Member, Joint, Or Limb; Or Substance Might Be Call'd That Shadow Seem'd, For Each Seem'd Either,--black It Stood As Night, Fierce As Ten Furies, Terrible As Hell, And Shook A Dreadful Dart; What Seem'd His Head The Likeness Of A Kingly Crown Had On. Satan Was Now At Hand.

O Welcome Pure-eyed Faith, White Handed Hope, Thou Hovering Angel Girt With Golden Wings.

On The Tawny Sands And Shelves Trip The Pert Fairies And The Dapper Elves.

Must I Thus Leave Thee, Paradise?-thus Leave Thee, Native Soil, These Happy Walks And Shades?

The Bird Of Jove, Stoop'd From His Aery Tour, Two Birds Of Gayest Plume Before Him Drove.

Solitude Is Sometimes The Best Society.

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

The Debt Immense Of Endless Gratitude, So Burthensome, Still Paying, Still To Owe; Forgetful What From Him I Still Receivd, And Understood Not That A Grateful Mind By Owing Owes Not, But Still Pays, At Once Indebted And Dischargd; What Burden Then?

Ev'n Them Who Kept Thy Truth So Pure Of Old, When All Our Fathers Worshipp'd Stocks And Stones.

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

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.

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

A Shout That Tore Hell's Concave, And Beyond / Frightened The Reign Of Chaos And Old Night.

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.

The Angel Ended, And In Adam's Ear So Charming Left His Voice, That He Awhile Thought Him Still Speaking, Still Stood Fix'd To Hear.

No Institution Which Does Not Continually Test Its Ideals, Techniques And Measure Of Accomplishment Can Claim Real Vitality.

He Alone Is Worthy Of The Appellation Who Either Does Great Things, Or Teaches How They May Be Done, Or Describes Them With A Suitable Majesty When They Have Been Done; But Those Only Are Great Things Which Tend To Render Life More Happy, Which Increase The Innocent Enjoyments And Comforts Of Existence, Or Which Pave The Way To A State Of Future Bliss More Permanent And More Pure.

With Thee Goes Thy Husband, Him To Follow Thou Art Bound; Where He Abides, Think There Thy Native Soil.

I Fled, And Cry'd Out, Death; Hell Trembled At The Hideous Name, And Sigh'd From All Her Caves, And Back Resounded, Death.

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.

Now The Bright Morning-star, Day's Harbinger, Comes Dancing From The East.

A Short Retirement Urges A Sweet Return.

Necessity And Chance Approach Not Me, And What I Will Is Fate.

The Great Creator From His Work Returned Magnificent, His Six Days' Work, A World.

Death Grinn'd Horrible A Ghastly Smile, To Hear His Famine Should Be Fill'd.

I Hate When Vice Can Bolt Her Arguments, And Virtue Has No Tongue To Check Her Pride.

Evil Into The Mind Of God Or Man May Come And Go, So Unapproved, And Leave No Spot Or Blame Behind.

His Sleep Was Aery Light, From Pure Digestion Bred.

With Thee Conversing I Forget All Time.

Trending Author

Karen Carpenter

Eugene H. Peterson

Category