John Milton Quotes
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Truth never comes into the world but like a bastard, to the ignominy of him that brought her birth.
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But what more oft in nations grown corrupt, And by their vices brought to servitude, Than to love bondage more than liberty, Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty.
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Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not inthralled; Yea, even that which mischief meant most harm Shall in the happy trial prove most glory.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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Hope elevates, and joy Brightens his crest.
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Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit/Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste/Brought death into the world, and all our woe,/With loss of Eden, till one greater Man/Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,/Sing heavenly muse...
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms: Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;
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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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Let no man seek Henceforth to be foretold that shall befall Him or his children.
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A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old, Where armies whole have sunk: the parching air Burns frore, and cold performs th' effect of fire. Thither by harpy-footed Furies hal'd, At certain revolutions all the damn'd Are brought, and feel by turns the bitter change Of fierce extremes,-extremes by change more fierce; From beds of raging fire to starve in ice Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine Immovable, infix'd, and frozen round, Periods of time; thence hurried back to fire.
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What in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support, That to the height of this great argument I may assert eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to men.
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And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream.
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Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
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Farewell happy fields, Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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Praise from an enemy smells of craft.
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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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The whole freedom of man consists either in spiritual or civil liberty.
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Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
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The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks, Safest and seemliest by her husband stays, Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
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Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene, and as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view.