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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.

-John Milton

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He That Can Apprehend

John Milton

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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.

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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.

Forget Thyself To Marble.

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

And Grace That Won Who Saw To Wish Her Stay.

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

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.

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

Pleas'd Me, Long Choosing And Beginning Late.

Paradise Lost Book 9

Witness This New-made World, Another Heav'n From Heaven Gate Not Farr, Founded In View On The Clear Hyaline, The Glassie Sea; Of Amplitude Almost Immense, With Starr's Numerous, And Every Starr Perhaps A World Of Destined Habitation.

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

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

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?

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

For Books Are Not Absolutely Dead Things, But Do Contain A Potency Of Life In Them To Be As Active As That Soul Was Whose Progeny They Are; Nay, They Do Preserve As In A Vial The Purest Efficacy And Extraction Of That Living Intellect That Bred Them.

Incens'd With Indignation Satan Stood Unterrify'd, And Like A Comet Burn'd That Fires The Length Of Ophiuchus Huge In Th' Arctic Sky, And From His Horrid Hair Shakes Pestilence And War.

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.

Execute Their Airy Purposes.

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

Abash'd The Devil Stood, And Felt How Awful Goodness Is.

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.

O Fleeting Joys Of Paradise, Dear Bought With Lasting Woes!

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

Arm The Obdured Breast With Stubborn Patience As With Triple Steel.

His Sleep Was Aery Light, From Pure Digestion Bred.

Danger Will Wink On Opportunity.

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

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

'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.

When Language In Common Use In Any Country Becomes Irregular And Depraved, It Is Followed By Their Ruin And Degradation. For What Do Terms Used Without Skill Or Meaning, Which Are At Once Corrupt And Misapplied, Denote But A People Listless, Supine, And Ripe For Servitude?

The Earth, Though In Comparison Of Heaven So Small, Nor Glistering, May Of Solid Good Contain More Plenty Than The Sun, That Barren Shines.

Antichrist Is Mammon's Son.

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

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

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

Where There Is Much Desire To Learn, There Of Necessity Will Be Much Arguing, Much Writing, For Opinion In Good Men Is But Knowledge In The Making.

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

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

And Storied Windows Richly Dight, Casting A Dim Religious Light. There Let The Pealing Organ Blow, To The Full-voiced Choir Below, In Service High, And Anthems Clear As May, With Sweetness, Through Mine Ear Dissolve Me Into Ecstasies, And Bring All Heaven Before Mine Eyes.

So Many Laws Argues So Many Sins.

Mammon, The Least Erected Spirit That Fell >from Heaven; For Ev'n In Heaven His Looks And Thoughts Were Always Downward Bent, Admiring More The Riches Of Heaven's Pavement, Trodden Gold, Than Aught Divine Or Holy Else Enjoy'd In Vision Beatific.

Few Sometimes May Know, When Thousands Err.

Indu'd With Sanctity Of Reason.

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

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap, Or Be With Ease Gathered, Not Harshly Plucked, For Death Mature: This Is Old Age; But Then Thou Must Outlive Thy Youth, Thy Strength, Thy Beauty, Which Will Change To Withered Weak And Grey.

This Is The Month, And This The Happy Morn, Wherein The Son Of Heaven's Eternal King, Of Wedded Maid And Virgin Mother Born, Our Great Redemption From Above Did Bring.

Goodness Thinks No Ill Where No Ill Seems.

From Man Or Angel The Great Architect Did Wisely To Conceal, And Not Divulge, His Secrets, To Be Scanned By Them Who Ought Rather Admire. Or, If They List To Try Conjecture, He His Fabric Of The Heavens Hath Left To Their Disputes - Perhaps To Move His Laughter At Their Quaint Opinions Wide Hereafter, When They Come To Model Heaven And Calculate The Stars: How They Will Wield The Mighty Frame: How Build, Unbuild, Contrive To Save Appearances; How Gird The Sphere With Centric And Eccentric Scribbled O'er, Cycle And Epicycle, Orb In Orb.

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

Heaven Is For Thee Too High To Know What Passes There; Be Lowly Wise. Think Only What Concerns Thee And Thy Being; Dream Not Of Other Worlds, What Creatures There Live, In What State, Condition, Or Degree, Contented That Thus Far Hath Been Revealed.

Who Can Enjoy Alone? Or All Enjoying What Contentment Find?

Iris All Hues, Roses, And Jessamine Reared High Their Flourished Heads Between, And Wrought Mosaic; Underfoot The Violet, Crocus, And Hyacinth With Rich Inlay Broidered The Ground, More Coloured Than With Stone Of Costliest Emblem: Other Creature Here Beast, Bird, Insect, Or Worm Durst Enter None; Such Was Their Awe Of Man.

That Power Which Erring Men Call Chance.

Thy Liquid Notes That Close The Eye Of Day.

How Charming Is Divine Philosophy! Not Harsh And Crabbed, As Dull Fools Suppose, But Musical As Is Apollo's Lute, And A Perpetual Feast Of Nectar'd Sweets Where No Crude Surfeit Reigns

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

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

Such Sweet Compulsion Doth In Music Lie.

(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.

Never Can True Reconcilement Grow Where Wounds Of Deadly Hate Have Pierced So Deep.

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

The Power Of Kings And Magistrates Is Nothing Else, But What Is Only Derivative, Transferrd And Committed To Them In Trust From The People, To The Common Good Of Them All, In Whom The Power Yet Remaines Fundamentally, And Cannot Be Takn From Them, Without A Violation Of Thir Natural Birthright.

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!

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.

Th' Ethereal Mould Incapable Of Stain Would Soon Expel Her Mischief, And Purge Off The Baser Fire, Victorious. Thus Repuls'd, Our Final Hope Is Flat Despair.

Thence To The Famous Orators Repair, Those Ancient, Whose Resistless Eloquence Wielded At Will That Fierce Democratie, Shook The Arsenal, And Fulmin'd Over Greece, To Macedon, And Artaxerxes' Throne.

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

And Yet On The Other Hand Unless Warinesse Be Us'd, As Good Almost Kill A Man As Kill A Good Book; Who Kills A Man Kills A Reasonable Creature, Gods Image, But Hee Who Destroyes A Good Booke, Kills Reason It Selfe, Kills The Image Of God, As It Were In The Eye.

Blind Mouths! That Scarce Themselves Know How To Hold A Sheep-hook.

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.

And The Earth Self-balanced On Her Centre Hung.

On The Morning Of Christ's Nativity Perhaps Their Loves, Or Else Their Sheep, Was All That Did Their Silly Thoughts So Busy Keep.

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

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

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.

Ink Is The Blood Of The Printing-press.

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

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

He Left It In Thy Power, Ordaind Thy Will By Nature Free, Not Over-rul'd By Fate Inextricable, Or Strict Necessity.

Sometime Let Gorgeous Tragedy In Sceptred Pall Come Sweeping By, Presenting Thebes, Or Pelops' Line, Or The Tale Of Troy Divine.

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

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

God Is Thy Law, Thou Mine.

Paradise Lost Book 9

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.

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

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

Fame Is The Spur That The Clear Spirit Doth Raise

What Need A Man Forestall His Date Of Grief, And Run To Meet What He Would Most Avoid?.

You Can Make Hell Out Of Heaven And Heaven Out Of Hell. It's All In The Mind.

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.

Books Are Not Absolutely Dead Things, But Do Contain A Potency Of Life In Them....i Know They Are As Lively And As Vigorously Productive As Those Fabulous Dragon's Teeth And Being Sown Up And Down, May Chance To Spring Up Armed Men.

For Solomon, He Lived At Ease, And Full Of Honour, Wealth, High Fare, Aimed Not Beyond Higher Design Than To Enjoy His State.

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.

My Sentence Is For Open War.

Beauty Is Nature's Brag, And Must Be Shown In Courts, At Feasts, And High Solemnities, Where Most May Wonder At The Workmanship.

Daughter To That Good Earl, Once President Of England's Council, And Her Treasury, Who Lived In Both, Unstained With Gold Or Fee, And Left Them Both, More In Himself Content, Till Sad The Breaking Of That Parliament Broke Him, As That Dishonest Victory At Chaeronea, Fatal To Liberty, Killed With Report That Old Man Eloquent. Though Later Born Than To Have Known The Days Wherein Your Father Flourished, Yet By You, 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, Honoured Margaret.

They Also Serve Who Only Stand And Wait.

Patience And Waiting

There Is Nothing That Making Men Rich And Strong But That Which They Carry Inside Of Them. True Wealth Is Of The Heart, Not Of The Hand.

Know Thy Birth! For Dost Thou Art, And Shalt To Dust Return.

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

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.

Better To Reign In Hell Than Serve In Heav'n.

What Is Dark Within Me, Illumine.

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

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.

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.

Retiring From The Popular Noise, I Seek This Unfrequented Place To Find Some Ease.

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

The Helmed Cherubim, And Sworded Seraphim, Are Seen In Glittering Ranks With Wings Display'd.

New Presbyter Is But Old Priest Writ Large.

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

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

The Mind Is Its Own Place, And In Itself, Can Make Heaven Of Hell, And A Hell Of Heaven.

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.

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.

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.

Accuse Not Nature: She Hath Done Her Part; Do Thou But Thine.

Just Are The Ways Of God, And Justifiable To Men; Unless There Be Who Think Not God At All.

How Gladly Would I Meet Mortality, My Sentence, And Be Earth In Sensible! How Glad Would Lay Me Down, As In My Mother's Lap! There I Should Rest, And Sleep Secure.

Thoughts That Voluntary Move Harmonious Numbers.

The Liberty Of Conscience, Which Above All Other Things Ought To Be To All Men Dearest And Most Precious.

Freely They Stood Who Stood, And Fell Who Fell.

They Eat, They Drink, And In Communion Sweet Quaff Immortality And Joy.

Solitude Is Sometimes The Best Society.

Ladies, Whose Bright Eyes Rain Influence, And Judge The Prize.

So Shall The World Go On, To Good Malignant, To Bad Men Benign, Under Her Own Weight Groaning.

Yet I Shall Temper So Justice With Mercy, As May Illustrate Most Them Fully Satisfy'd, And Thee Appease.

Flowers Of All Hue, And Without Thorn The Rose.

Paradise On Earth

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.

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

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.

Still Paying, Still To Owe. Eternal Woe!

For What Is Glory But The Blaze Of Fame?

Beauty Is Nature's Coin, Must Not Be Hoarded, But Must Be Current, And The Good Thereof Consists In Mutual And Partaken Bliss.

Earth Felt The Wound; And Nature From Her Seat, Sighing Through All Her Works, Gave Signs Of Woe That All Was Lost.

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

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 Saviour Who Flitted Before The Patriarchs Through The Fog Of The Old Dispensation, And Who Spake In Time Past To The Fathers By The Prophets, Articulate But Unseen, Is The Same Saviour Who, On The Open Heights Of The Gospel, And In The Abundant Daylight Of This New Testament, Speaks To Us. Still All Along It Is The Same Jesus, And That Bible Is From Beginning To End All Of It, The Word Of Christ.

And To Thy Husband's Will Thine Shall Submit; He Over Thee Shall Rule.

Vain Wisdom All, And False Philosophy.

The Work Under Our Labour Grows, Luxurious By Restraint.

Farewell Hope, And With Hope Farewell Fear

Paradise Lost Book 9

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

From Haunted Spring And Dale Edg'd With Poplar Pale The Parting Genius Is With Sighing Sent.

True It Is That Covetousness Is Rich, Modesty Starves.

He Who Destroys A Good Book Kills Reason Itself.

Revenge, At First Though Sweet, Bitter Ere Long Back On Itself Recoils.

Boast Not Of What Thou Would'st Have Done, But Do.

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.

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

Nothing Is Here For Tears, Nothing To Wail Or Knock The Breast, No Weakness, No Contempt, Dispraise, Or Blame,-nothing But Well And Fair, And What May Quiet Us In A Death So Noble.

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.

Satan; So Call Him Now, His Former Name Is Heard No More In Heaven.

For Other Things Mild Heav'n A Time Ordains, And Disapproves That Care, Though Wise In Show, That With Superfluous Burden Loads The Day, And When God Sends A Cheerful Hour, Refrains.

Dim Eclipse, Disastrous Twilight.

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.

From His Lips/not Words Alone Pleased Her.

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

Courage Never To Submit Of Yield.

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

Thus I Set My Printless Feet O'er The Cowslip's Velvet Head, That Bends Not As I Tread.

A Dungeon Horrible, On All Sides Round, As One Great Furnace, Flamed; Yet From Those Flames No Light, But Rather Darkness Visible Serv'd Only To Discover Sights Of Woe, Regions Of Sorrow, Doleful Shades, Where Peace And Rest Can Never Dwell, Hope Never Comes That Comes To All; But Torture Without End.

Wherefore Did Nature Pour Her Bounties Forth With Such A Full And Unwithdrawing Hand, Covering The Earth With Odours, Fruits, Flocks, Thronging The Seas With Spawn Innumerable, But All To Please And Sate The Curious Taste?

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.

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

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

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

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

Athens, The Eye Of Greece, Mother Of Arts And Eloquence.

His Rod Revers'd, And Backward Mutters Of Dissevering Power.

God Made Thee Perfect, Not Immutable.

O Loss Of Sight, Of Thee I Most Complain! Blind Among Enemies, O Worse Than Chains, Dungeon Or Beggary, Or Decrepit Age! Light, The Prime Work Of God, To Me Is Extinct, And All Her Various Objects Of Delight Annulled, Which Might In Part My Grief Have Eased. Inferior To The Vilest Now Become Of Man Or Worm; The Vilest Here Excel Me, They Creep, Yet See; I, Dark In Light, Exposed To Daily Fraud, Contempt, Abuse And Wrong, Within Doors, Or Without, Still As A Fool, In Power Of Others, Never In My Own; Scarce Half I Seem To Live, Dead More Than Half.

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.

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

The Spirit Of Man, Which God Inspired, Cannot Together Perish With This Corporeal Clod.

Those Graceful Acts, Those Thousand Decencies, That Daily Flow From All Her Words And Actions, Mixed With Love And Sweet Compliance, Which Declare Unfeigned Union Of Mind, Or In Us Both One Soul.

Fear Of Change Perplexes Monarchs.

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

Time Will Run Back And Fetch The Age Of Gold.

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

What Wisdom Can There Be To Choose, What Continence To Forbear Without The Knowledge Of Evil? 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.

No Date Prefixed Directs Me In The Starry Rubric Set.

Nothing Profits More Than Self-esteem, Grounded On What Is Just And Right.

Solitude Is Sometimes Best Society.

When The New Light Which We Beg For Shines In Upon Us, There Be [those] Who Envy And Oppose, If It Come Not First In At Their Casements.

Yet From Those Flames No Light, But Rather Darkness Visible.

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

God Shall Be All In All.

United Thoughts And Counsels, Equal Hope And Hazard In The Glorious Enterprise.

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

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.

The Low'ring Element Scowls O'er The Darken'd Landscape.

Consider First, That Great Or Bright Infers Not Excellence.

There Is No Truth Sure Enough To Justify Persecution.

Those Whom Reason Hath Equalled, Force Hath Made Supreme

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

These Two Imparadised In One Another's Arms, The Happier Eden, Shall Enjoy Their Fill Of Bliss On Bliss.

And Feel That I Am Happier Than I Know.

A Boundless Continent, Dark, Waste, And Wild, Under The Frown Of Night Starless Expos'd.

A Short Retirement Urges A Sweet Return.

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