John Milton Quotes
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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 to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible.
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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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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.
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He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?
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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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Nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study household good, And good works in her husband to promote.
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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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Every cloud has a silver lining.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.
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These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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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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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous humRuns through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance or breathed spellInspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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This is servitude, To serve th' unwise, or him who hath rebelled Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee, Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled.
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He who freely magnifies what hath been nobly done, and fears not to declares as freely what might be done better, gives ye the best covenant of his fidelity.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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Or call up him that left half toldThe story of Cambuscan bold.
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Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.