John Milton Quotes
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The gadding vine.
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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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 hideLodged with me useless.
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Under the opening eyelids of the morn,We drove afield; and both together heardWhat time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night.
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Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
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Hope elevates, and joy Brightens his crest.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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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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Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.
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I sat me down to watch upon a bank With ivy canopied and interwove With flaunting honeysuckle.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods thyself a Goddess.
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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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Education of youth is not a bow for every man to shoot in that counts himself a teacher; but will require sinews almost equal to those which Homer gave to Ulysses.
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He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?
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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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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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And the jocund rebecks soundTo many a youth, and many a maid,Dancing in the checkered shade.And young and old come forth to playOn a sunshine holiday.
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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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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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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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What can 'scape the eye Of God, all-seeing, or deceive His heart. Omniscient!