John Milton Quotes
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None can love freedom heartily, but good men; the rest love not freedom, but licence.
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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said;But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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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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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook.
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Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, Covering the earth with odours, fruits, flocks, Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, But all to please and sate the curious taste?
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God made thee perfect, not immutable.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
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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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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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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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Still paying, still to owe. Eternal woe!
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And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.
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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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[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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Good, the more communicated, more abundant grows.
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By night the Glass Of Galileo ... observes Imagin'd Land and Regions in the Moon.
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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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Without the meed of some melodious tear.
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It is Chastity, my brother. She that has that is clad in complete steel.
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Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine.
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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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Attic tragedies of stateliest and most regal argument.
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Loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good.