John Milton

Good luck befriend thee, Son; for at thy birth
The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.

Good luck befriend thee, Son; for at thy birth
The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.

Luck is the residue of design.

Luck is the residue of design.

Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men's names.

Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men's names.

These evils I deserve, and more
. . . .
Justly, yet despair not of his final read more

These evils I deserve, and more
. . . .
Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon,
Whose ear is ever open, and his eye
Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;
Thou read more

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.