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John Milton. (1608–1674). Complete Poems. The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Index to First Lines

A book was writ of late called Tetrachordon
A little onward lend thy guiding hand
All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued
As one who, in his journey, bates at noon,
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones
Because you have thrown off your Prelate Lord
Before the starry threshold of Jove’s court
Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven’s joy
Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Cyriack, this three years’ day these eyes, though clear
Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench
Daughter to that good Earl, one President
Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
Erewhile of music, and ethereal mirth
Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings
Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race
Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born!
Hail, Native Language, that by sinews weak
Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song
Hence, loathèd Melancholy
Hence, vain deluding Joys
Here lies old Hobson. Death hath broke his girt
Here lieth one who did most truly prove
High on a throne of royal state, which far
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth
I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
I, who erewhile the happy Garden sung
Lady! that in the prime of earliest youth
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son
Let us with a gladsome mind
Look, Nymphs and Shepherds, look!
Meanwhile the hainous and despiteful act
Meanwhile the new-baptized, who yet remained
Methought I saw my late espoused saint
No more of talk where God or Angel Guest
Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime
Now the bright morning-star, Day’s harbinger
O fairest Flower, no sooner blown but blasted
O for that warning voice, which he who saw
Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit first disobedience, and the fruit
O Nightingale that on yon blooming spray
Perplexed and troubled at his bad success
So spake the Son of God; and Satan stood
The Angel ended, and in Adam’s ear
This is the month, and this the happy morn
This rich marble doth inter
Thus they, in lowliest, plight, repentant stood
Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old
What needs my Shakespeare, for his honoured bones
When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never
When I consider how my light is spent
When the blest seed of Terah’s faithful Son
Ye flaming Powers, and wingèd Warriors bright
Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more