John Milton Quotes

With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.

What hath night to do with sleep?

Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.

God shall be all in all.

Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.

Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to light.

Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!

Let her (Truth) and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?

Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.

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?

For stories teach us, that liberty sought out of season, in a corrupt and degenerate age, brought Rome itself to a farther slavery: for liberty hath a sharp and double edge, fit only to be handled by just and virtuous men; to bad and dissolute, it becomes a mischief unwieldy in their own hands: neither is it completely given, but by them who have the happy skill to know what is grievance and unjust to a people, and how to remove it wisely; what good laws are wanting, and how to frame them substantially, that good men may enjoy the freedom which they merit, and the bad the curb which they need.

The end of all learning is to know God, and out of that knowledge to love and imitate Him.

Death ready stands to interpose his dart.

Hate is of all things the mightiest divider, nay, is division itself. To couple hatred, therefore, though wedlock try all her golden links, and borrow to tier aid all the iron manacles and fetters of law, it does but seek to twist a rope of sand.

And out of good still to find means of evil.

A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.

A boundless continent, Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of night Starless expos'd.

What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?

He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.

A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all; but torture without end.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint.

There is no Christian duty that is not to be seasoned and set off with cheerishness, which in a thousand outward and intermitting crosses may yet be done well, as in this vale of tears.

So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.

Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

Just deeds are the best answer to injurious words.

Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

He who freely magnifies what hath been nobly done, and fears not to declares as freely what might be done better, gives ye the best covenant of his fidelity.

Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.

O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.

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.

This is servitude, To serve the unwise.

The sacred influence of light appears.

Enflamed with the study of learning and the admiration of virtue; stirred up with high hopes of living to be brave men and worthy patriots, dear to God, and famous to all ages.

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.

O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost

Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it; others neither have nor deserve it; some have it, not deserving it; others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.

Farewell happy fields, Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn.

She what was honour knew, And with obsequious majesty approv'd My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower I led her blushing like the morn; all heaven And happy constellations on that hour Shed their selectest influence; the earth Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill; Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub.

So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.

Evil, be thou my good.

In naked beauty most adorned.

By labor and intent study (which I take to be my portion in this life), joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die.

It is for homely features to keep home,- They had their name thence; coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?

Fear of change perplexes monarchs.

The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.

He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself his own dungeon.