John Milton Quotes
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The first and wisest of them all professed To know this only, that he nothing knew.
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Hide me from day's garish eye,While the bee with honied thigh,That at her flowery work doth sing,And the waters murmuringWith such consort as they keep,Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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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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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
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Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.
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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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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears; And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony.
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Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
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Darkness now rose, as daylight sunk, and brought in low'ring Night her shadowy offspring.
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Praise from an enemy smells of craft.
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And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book; who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.
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In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against Nature not to go out, and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.
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See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, With joy and love triumphing.
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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. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild, And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
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He who destroys a good book kills reason itself.
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Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose, like an exhalation.
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What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,The labor of an age in pilèd stones,Or that his hallowed relics should be hidUnder a star-y-pointing pyramid?Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
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Apt words have power to suage the tumors of a troubled mind.
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Infinity is a dark illimitable ocean, without bound.
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God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.