John Milton Quotes
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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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Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure, all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train.
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Then lies him down the lubber fiend,And stretched out all the chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength.
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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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Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.
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Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures, Russet lawns and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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Courtesy which oft is found in lowly sheds, with smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls and courts of princes, where it first was named.
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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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Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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From that high mount of God whence light and shade Spring both, the face of brightest heaven had changed To grateful twilight.
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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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Behold the kings of the Earth how they oppressThy chosen, to what highth thir pow'r unjustThey have exalted, and behind them castAll fear of thee, arise and vindicateThy Glory, free thy people from thir yoke
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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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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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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Virtue hath no tongue to check vice's pride.
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For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
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A beardless cynic is the shame of nature.