John Milton Quotes
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Let her (Truth) and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?
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Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
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Evil on itself shall back recoil.
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O fleeting joys Of Paradise, dear bought with lasting woes!
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Meadows trim, with daisies pied,Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;Towers and balements it seesBosomed high in tufted trees,Where perhaps some beauty lies,The cynosure of neighboring eyes.
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God made thee perfect, not immutable.
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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook.
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I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
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And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.
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Without the meed of some melodious tear.
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[Rhyme is] but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meter; ... Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rhyme, ... as have also long since our best English tragedies, as... trivial and of no true musical delight; which [truly] consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned ancients both in poetry and all good oratory.
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Still paying, still to owe. Eternal woe!
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It is Chastity, my brother. She that has that is clad in complete steel.
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Good, the more communicated, more abundant grows.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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Execute their airy purposes.
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A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all; but torture without end.
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed;And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky.So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of him that walked the waves.
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In the sweat of thy face thou shalt eat bread, Till thou return unto the ground; for thou Out of the ground wast taken; know thy birth, For dust thou art, and shalt to dust return.
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But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon.
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Swinish gluttony never looks to heaven amidst its gorgeous feast; but with besotted, base ingratitude, cravens and blasphemes his feeder.
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As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.