O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.
A louse in the locks of literature.
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
The mirror crack'd from side to side "The curse has come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott
It is hard to wive and thrive both in a year.