From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
John MiltonHung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
John MiltonFame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
John Milton