What though the field be lost?
All is not Lost; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And the courage never to submit or yeild.
Me miserable! 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.
O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
They changed their minds, Flew off, and into strange vagaries fell.
John MiltonMots clés satan paradise-lost john blind-poet epic-poem milton
All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.
John MiltonThis horror will grow mild, this darkness light.
John MiltonMots clés paradise-lost
Our cure, to be no more; sad cure!
John MiltonHow soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
Mots clés age time subtle thief
Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
John MiltonWhere the bright seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.
Mots clés poetry mythology seraphim trumpets
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