John Milton Quotes
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Ladies, whose bright eyesRain influence, and judge the prize.
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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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It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit; But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.
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If at great things thou would'st arrive, Get riches first, get wealth, and treasure heap, Not difficult, if thou hearken to me; Riches are mine, fortune is in my hand, They whom I favor thrive in wealth amain, While virtue, valor, wisdom, sit in want.
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Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?
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How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled!
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Immortal amarant, a flower which once In paradise, fast by the tree of life, Began to bloom; but soon for man's offence To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows, And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life, And where the river of bliss through midst of heaven Rolls o'er elysian flowers her amber stream: With these that never fade the spirits elect Bind their resplendent locks.
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Each tree Laden with fairest fruit, that hung to th' eye Tempting, stirr'd in me sudden appetite To pluck and eat.
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There is nothing that making men rich and strong but that which they carry inside of them. True wealth is of the heart, not of the hand.
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue, but vice revolted from itself, and after a while returning. The actions of just and pious men do not darken in their middle course.
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Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love.
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But see! theVirgin blessed Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending.
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Such bickerings to recount, met often in these our writers, what more worth is it than to chronicle the wars of kites or crows flocking and fighting in the air?
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And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.
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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.
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Day and night, Seed-time and harvest, heat and hoary frost Shall hold their course, till fire purge all things new.
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They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.
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Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possess'd.
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But say That death be not one stroke, as I supposed, Bereaving sense, but endless misery From this day onward, which I feel begun Both in me, and without me, and so last To perpetuity; ay me, that fear Comes thund'ring back with dreadful revolution On my defenceless head; both Death and I Am found eternal, and incorporate both, Nor I on my part single, in me all Paradise Lost Posterity stands cursed: fair patrimony That I must leave ye, sons; O were I able To waste it all myself, and leave ye none!
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And every shepherd tells his taleUnder the hawthorn in the dale.
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The end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents.
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By labor and intent study (which I take to be my portion in this life), joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die.
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Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.
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Evil, be thou my good.