A taste of Milton

I'm too tired right now to say much of worth or wit; though that alone is oft of debate and the point of which is entirely redundant but to the few out there who accidentally, or otherwise, come across this page. Tired and sick. Full of yeast and wheat.
   What is the appreciation of others but something always envied, sought for and, ultimately, facile.
I'll try not to make a habit of quoting others, but here's something I couldn't ignore:

"For what is glory but the blaze of fame,
The people's praise, if always praise unmixed?
And what the people but a herd confused,
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol
Things vulgar, and, well weighed, scarce worth
the praise?"

Perhaps it's time we do something of worth, or if not, consider ourselves no greater than scum.
And if the action denotes the label, or vice versa, then let us be jubilant in voicing our names and cause.
Happy label, that should fit one so snug.
Better than being displaced.
Better to be scum than one against all.

And the moths invade my room as though it were their own abode. Let them.
Let nature's thick branches grow and push the bricks apart.
Let blossoms bloom and grasses rise; the insects take their kingdom.
Let the ivy cling and pull me to the Earth's sweet breast, where I may have a deeper rest.
Drag me toward my true home.
For I do so tire of the mundane:
I do so tire of breathing.