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John Milton -
Paradise Lost (1667)
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Her rash hand in evil hour
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate:
Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat
Sighing through all her works gave signs of woe
That all was lost.
John Milton
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His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.
John Milton
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Black it stood as night,
Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as hell,
And shook a dreadful dart.
John Milton
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My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight.
John Milton
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Accuse not Nature, she hath done her part;
Do thou but thine.
John Milton
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To do aught good never will be our task,
But ever to do ill our sole delight.
John Milton
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Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life,
The middle tree and highest there that grew,
Sat like a cormorant.
John Milton
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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.
John Milton
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What in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support, That to the height of this great argument I may assert eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to men.
John Milton
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So saying, with dispatchful looks in haste She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent.
John Milton
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That practis'd falsehood under saintly shew, Deep malice to conceal, couch'd with revenge.
John Milton
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Chaos umpire sits And by decision more embroils the fray by which he reigns: next him high arbiter Chance governs all.
John Milton
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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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Arm th' obdur'd breast With stubborn patience as with triple steel.
John Milton
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To be weak is miserable,
Doing or suffering.
John Milton
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years damp my intended wing.
John Milton
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Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
John Milton
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With thee conversing I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change; all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds.
John Milton
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Who overcomes
By force, hath overcome but half his foe.
John Milton
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To perish rather, swallowed up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated night.
John Milton
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Anon they move
In perfect phalanx, to the Dorian mood Of flutes and soft recorders.
John Milton
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For contemplation he and valour formed,
For softness she and sweet attractive grace,
He for God only, she for God in him.
John Milton
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…What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
John Milton
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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.
John Milton
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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.
John Milton
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Whence and what art thou, execrable shape?
John Milton
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The sun...
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs.
John Milton
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What reinforcement we may gain from hope;
If not, what resolution from despair.
John Milton
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Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
John Milton
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Quote of the day
Good authors, too, who once knew better words Now only use four-letter words Writing prose — Anything goes.
Cole Porter
John Milton
Creative Commons
Born:
December 9, 1608
Died:
November 8, 1674
(aged 65)
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