John Milton Quotes
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By night the Glass Of Galileo ... observes Imagin'd Land and Regions in the Moon.
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Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
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Attic tragedies of stateliest and most regal argument.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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To adore the conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood.
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The Saviour who flitted before the patriarchs through the fog of the old dispensation, and who spake in time past to the fathers by the prophets, articulate but unseen, is the same Saviour who, on the open heights of the Gospel, and in the abundant daylight of this New Testament, speaks to us. Still all along it is the same Jesus, and that Bible is from beginning to end all of it, the word of Christ.
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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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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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And every shepherd tells his taleUnder the hawthorn in the dale.
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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Sometime let gorgeous TragedyIn sceptred pall come sweeping by,Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,Or the tale of Troy divine.
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License they mean when they cry, Liberty!For who loves that must first be wise and good.
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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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How gladly would I meet mortality, my sentence, and be earth in sensible! How glad would lay me down, as in my mother's lap! There I should rest, and sleep secure.
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Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's garb, counseled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth, not peace.
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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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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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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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Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain; if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.
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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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The gadding vine.
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Loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good.
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O madness to think use of strongest wines And strongest drinks our chief support of health, When God with these forbidden made choice to rear His mighty champion, strong above compare, Whose drink was only from the liquid brook.