John Milton Quotes
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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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Be frustrate, all ye stratagems of Hell,And devilish machinations come to nought.
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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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Spirits that live throughout, Vital in every part, not as frail man, In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins, Cannot but by annihilating die.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise...
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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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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Take heed lest passion sway Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will Would not admit.
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Believe and be confirmed.
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Under the opening eyelids of the morn,We drove afield; and both together heardWhat time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night.
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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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As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.
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Accuse not nature: she hath done her part; Do thou but thine.
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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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Darkness now rose, as daylight sunk, and brought in low'ring Night her shadowy offspring.
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And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.
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Where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes, That comes to all.
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Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
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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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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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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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When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leavesWith minute drops from off the eaves.
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Danger will wink on opportunity.