John Milton Quotes
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Nor turned I ween Adam from his fair spouse, nor Eve the rites Mysterious of connubial love refused: Whatever hypocrites austerely talk Of purity and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all.
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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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Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.
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Peor and BaälimForsake their temples dim.
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Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.
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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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A bevy of fair women.
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For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
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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.
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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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A beardless cynic is the shame of nature.
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When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leavesWith minute drops from off the eaves.
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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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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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And, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
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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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Darkness now rose, as daylight sunk, and brought in low'ring Night her shadowy offspring.
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Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
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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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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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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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Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
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And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.
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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.