John Milton Quotes
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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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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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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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Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.
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And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.
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These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves.
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To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
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The great Emathian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground.
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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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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
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Here the great art lies, to discern in what the law is to be to restraint and punishment, and in what things persuasion only is to work.
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A bevy of fair women.
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Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.
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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.
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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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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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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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Yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible.
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Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed, which declares his dignity, And the regard of Heav'n on all his ways.
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A beardless cynic is the shame of nature.
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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 conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground,I hear the far-off curfew soundOver some wide-watered shore,Swinging low with sullen roar.