John Milton Quotes
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears; And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise...
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For the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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This is the month, and this the happy morn,Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King,Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did sing,That He our deadly forfeit should release,And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
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Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.
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Where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes, That comes to all.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age; but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.
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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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Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.
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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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Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
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My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth.
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The great Emathian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground.
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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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Be frustrate, all ye stratagems of Hell,And devilish machinations come to nought.
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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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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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He left it in thy power, ordaind thy will By nature free, not over-rul'd by Fate Inextricable, or strict necessity.
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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The bird of Jove, stoop'd from his aery tour, Two birds of gayest plume before him drove.
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Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure, all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train.