It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
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 MiltonNone But such as are good men can give good things, And that which is not good, is not delicious To a well-govern'd and wise appetite.
John MiltonCome to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
John Milton