John Milton Quotes
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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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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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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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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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Accuse not nature: she hath done her part; Do thou but thine.
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The whole freedom of man consists either in spiritual or civil liberty.
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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Ease would recant Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
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Hide me from day's garish eye,While the bee with honied thigh,That at her flowery work doth sing,And the waters murmuringWith such consort as they keep,Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
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Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.
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Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears; And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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Our country is where ever we are well off.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age; but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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Consider first, that great or bright infers not excellence.
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Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.
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Of four infernal rivers that disgorge/ Into the burning Lake their baleful streams;/Abhorred Styx the flood of deadly hate,/Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep;/Cocytus, nam'd of lamentation loud/ Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon/ Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage./ Far off from these a slow and silent stream,/ Lethe the River of Oblivion rolls/ Her wat'ry Labyrinth whereof who drinks,/ Forthwith his former state and being forgets,/ Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.
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Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.