John Milton ( 10 of 239 )
From that high mount of God whence light and shade
Spring both, the face of brightest heaven had changed
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From that high mount of God whence light and shade
Spring both, the face of brightest heaven had changed
To grateful twilight.
So glistered the dire Snake, and into fraud
Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the Tree
Of read more
So glistered the dire Snake, and into fraud
Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the Tree
Of Prohibition, root of all our woe.
Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul
And lap it in Elysium.
Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul
And lap it in Elysium.
So Satan, whom repulse upon repulse
Met ever, and to shameful silence brought,
Yet gives not o'er read more
So Satan, whom repulse upon repulse
Met ever, and to shameful silence brought,
Yet gives not o'er though desperate of success.
What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?
What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?
Nor jealousy
Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.
Nor jealousy
Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.
In discourse more sweet,
(For Eloquence the Sound, Song charmes the sense,)
Others apart sat on a read more
In discourse more sweet,
(For Eloquence the Sound, Song charmes the sense,)
Others apart sat on a hill retir'd,
In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high
Of Providence, Foreknowledge, Will and Fate,
Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute;
And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
If all the world
Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse,
Drink the clear stream, read more
If all the world
Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse,
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze,
Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
How charming is divine philosophy!
Not harsh, and crabbed, as full fools suppose,
But musical as is read more
How charming is divine philosophy!
Not harsh, and crabbed, as full fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo's lute,
And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns.