John Milton Quotes
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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Where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes, That comes to all.
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Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures, Russet lawns and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.
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And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book; who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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It is not hard for any man who hath a Bible in his hand to borrow good words and holy sayings in abundance; but to make them his own is a work of grace only from above.
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Don't hold grudges; it's pointless. Jealousy too is a non-cathartic, negative emotion.
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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
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Neither prosperity nor empire nor heaven can be worth winning at the price of a virulent temper, bloody hands, an anguished spirit, and a vain hatred of the rest of the world.
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A bevy of fair women.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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Or call up him that left half toldThe story of Cambuscan bold.
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Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.
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Of four infernal rivers that disgorge/ Into the burning Lake their baleful streams;/Abhorred Styx the flood of deadly hate,/Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep;/Cocytus, nam'd of lamentation loud/ Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon/ Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage./ Far off from these a slow and silent stream,/ Lethe the River of Oblivion rolls/ Her wat'ry Labyrinth whereof who drinks,/ Forthwith his former state and being forgets,/ Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.
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Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
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Nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study household good, And good works in her husband to promote.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous humRuns through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance or breathed spellInspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Peor and BaälimForsake their temples dim.
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With eyes Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd. Imparadised in one another's arms. With thee conversing I forget all time. And feel that I am happier than I know.
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Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.
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Courtesy which oft is found in lowly sheds, with smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls and courts of princes, where it first was named.
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Madam, methinks I see him living yet;So well your words his noble virtues praise,That all both judge you to relate them true,And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.
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He alone is worthy of the appellation who either does great things, or teaches how they may be done, or describes them with a suitable majesty when they have been done; but those only are great things which tend to render life more happy, which increase the innocent enjoyments and comforts of existence, or which pave the way to a state of future bliss more permanent and more pure.