John Milton

Where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all.

Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.

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.

Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.

Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?

With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.

With centric and eccentric scribbled o'er, Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb.

With grave Aspect he rose, and in his rising seem'd A pillar of state; deep on his front engraven Deliberation sat, and public care; And princely counsel in his face yet shone, Majestic though in ruin: sage he stood, With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look Drew audience and attention still as night Or summer's noontide air.

With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.

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; pleasant the sun When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful ev'ning mild; then silent night With this her solemn bird and this fair moon, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train: But neither breath of morn when she ascends With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower, Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers, Nor grateful ev'ning mild, nor silent night With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.