John Milton Quotes
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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day; and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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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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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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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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Into this wild abyss, The womb of Nature and perhaps her grave.
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The whole freedom of man consists either in spiritual or civil liberty.
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Fear of change perplexes monarchs.
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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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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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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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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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The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
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Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony.
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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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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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What hath night to do with sleep?
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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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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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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.
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The great Emathian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground.
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.