John Milton Quotes
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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.
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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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Apt words have power to suage the tumors of a troubled mind.
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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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He who destroys a good book kills reason itself.
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And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.
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See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, With joy and love triumphing.
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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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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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Every cloud has a silver lining.
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Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
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Yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible.
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Where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes, That comes to all.
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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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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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Hope elevates, and joy Brightens his crest.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise...
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The bird of Jove, stoop'd from his aery tour, Two birds of gayest plume before him drove.
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Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.
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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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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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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?