"John K. Taber" wrote:
>
>
> Sonnet 19
>
> When I consider how my light is spent
> Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
> And that one Talent which is death to hide
> Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
> To serve therewith my Maker, and present
> My true account, lest he returning chide,
> "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
> I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
> That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
> Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
> Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
> Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
> And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
> They also serve who only stand and wait."
> John Milton, 1655
>
How that man could write. It had not occurred to me before, but the difficulty of this sonnet that you note may have its source in a question that can't be explicitly voiced: Why did God create us anyhow?
And there is really no good answer to that question; it is the achilles heel as it were of all theistic thought. The questions Milton explicitly wrestled with, the problem of evil, etc. are merely variations on the puzzle of why that which is perfect should need anything (like a universe). And I suspect that it was this problem and not any sadistic tendencies which led Tertullian to his celebration of torment.
Carrol
> I've been told that the last line refers to the practice
> of having many servants about at aristocratic banquets, not
> to do anything necessarily, but just in case somebody
> needed something.
>
> --
> John K. Taber