John Milton Quotes
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Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with theeJest, and youthful jollity,Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,Nods and becks and wreathèd smiles.
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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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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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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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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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Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve The faith they owe; when earnestly they seek Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.
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A boundless continent, Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of night Starless expos'd.
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Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
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If weakness may excuse, What murderer, what traitor, parricide, Incestuous, sacrilegious, but may plead it? All wickedness is weakness; that plea, therefore, With God or man will gain thee no remission.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age; but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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Accuse not nature: she hath done her part; Do thou but thine.
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Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony.
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The whole freedom of man consists either in spiritual or civil liberty.
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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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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image, but thee who destroys a good book, kills reason its self.
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Last came, and last did go,The Pilot of the Galilean lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
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What hath night to do with sleep?
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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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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The great Emathian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground.
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The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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There is no Christian duty that is not to be seasoned and set off with cheerishness, which in a thousand outward and intermitting crosses may yet be done well, as in this vale of tears.