1. John Milton
The Lady lost in the Wood

From “Comus”
THE LADY.—This way the noise was, if mine ear be true,
My best guide now; methought it was the sound
Of riot and ill-managed merriment,
Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe
Stirs up amongst the loose, unlettered hinds,
When for...

Poet: John Milton
The Nymph of the Severn

From “Comus”
SPIRIT.—There is a gentle nymph not far from hence
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream.
Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure;
Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,
That had the sceptre from his father Brute.
She,...

Poet: John Milton
L’ Allegro

Hence, loathed Melancholy,
  Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,
  In Stygian cave forlorn,
’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
  Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-...

Poet: John Milton
Il Penseroso

Hence, vain deluding joys,
  The brood of Folly without father bred!
  How little you bestead,
Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toys!
  Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the...

Poet: John Milton
An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet, W. Shakespeare

What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones,
The labor of an age in pilèd stones?
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?...

Poet: John Milton
Adam and Eve

From “Paradise Lost,” Book IV.
TWO of far nobler shape, erect and tall,
Godlike erect, with native honor clad
In naked majesty, seemed lords of all:
And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine
The image of their glorious Maker shone,
Truth, wisdom...

Poet: John Milton
Battle of the Angels

From “Paradise Lost,” Book VI.
THE ARRAY
                    NOW went forth the morn,
Such as in highest heaven, arrayed in gold
Empyreal; from before her vanished night,
Shot through with orient beams; when all the plain
Covered with thick embattled...

Poet: John Milton
To the Lord-General Cromwell

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud,
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,
And on the neck of crownèd fortune proud
Hast reared God’s trophies, and his...

Poet: John Milton