On Time – John Milton

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet’s pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast intombed,
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss,
And Joy shall overtake us like a flood;
When everything that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With truth and peace, and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of Him, t’ whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars, we shall forever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time. 

To The Same – John Milton

Cyriack, this three years’ day these eyes, though clear, 
To outward view, of blemish or of a spot, 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgotten; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope, but still, bear up and steer 
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? 
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In liberty’s defense, my noble task, 
Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
This thought might lead me through the world’s vain mask 
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.