John Milton Quotes
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Apt words have power to suage the tumors of a troubled mind.
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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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Should God create another Eve, and I Another Rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart; no no, I feel The Link of Nature draw me: Flesh of Flesh, Bone of my Bone thou art, and from thy State Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
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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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Yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible.
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And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.
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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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He who destroys a good book kills reason itself.
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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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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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Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
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Every cloud has a silver lining.
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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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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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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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Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou livest, Live well; how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
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Hope elevates, and joy Brightens his crest.
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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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Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise...
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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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He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?
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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.