John Milton Quotes
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the cricket on the hearth.
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At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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Apostate, still thou err'st, nor end wilt find Offering, from the paths of truth remote.
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And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
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For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,And disapproves that care, though wise in show,That with superfluous burden loads the day,And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
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For men to tell how human life began Is hard; for who himself beginning knew?
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Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
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He that can apprehend and consider vice with all her baits and seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, he is the true wayfaring Christian. I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race, where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat. Assuredly we bring not innocence into the world, we bring impurity much rather: that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary.
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When we speak of knowing God, it must be understood with reference to man's limited powers of comprehension. God, as He really is, is far beyond man's imagination, let alone understanding. God has revealed only so much of Himself as our minds can conceive and the weakness of our nature can bear.
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Just deeds are the best answer to injurious words.
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Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit'st the bottom of the monstrous world.
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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
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O nightingale, that on yon bloomy sprayWarbl'st at eve, when all the woods are still.
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Nor think thou with wind Of æry threats to awe whom yet with deeds Thou canst not.
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Hence, loathèd Melancholy,Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,In Stygian cave forlorn,'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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This is servitude, To serve the unwise.
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The greatest burden in the world is superstition, not only of ceremonies in the church, but of imaginary and scarecrow sins at home.
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...how wearisom Eternity so spent in worship paid To whom we hate. Let us not then pursue By force impossible, by leave obtain'd Unacceptable, though in Heav'n, our state Of splendid vassalage, but rather seek Our own good from our selves, and from our own Live to our selves, though in this vast recess, Free, and to none accountable, preferring Hard liberty before the easie yoke Of servile Pomp
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Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possess'd.
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If all the world Should in a pet of temperance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.