More from John Milton

  1. But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
  2. Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not…
  3. Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield; and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our…
  4. Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.
  5. Without the meed of some melodious tear.
  6. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
  7. He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
  8. Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).

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