Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbea — All Writings Of John Milton

"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."

"Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie."

"Where the bright seraphim in burning row Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow."

"Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race: Call on the lazy leaden-stepping Hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummets pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross."

"He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem."

"And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die."