I fled, and cry'd out, Death; Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd From all her caves, and back resounded, Death.
John MiltonSuch bickerings to recount, met often in these our writers, what more worth is it than to chronicle the wars of kites or crows flocking and fighting in the air?
John MiltonAnd fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
John Milton