John Milton Quotes (574 Quotes)

Thus it shall befall Him, who to worth in women over-trusting, Lets her will rule: restraint she will not brook; And left to herself, if evil thence ensue She first his weak indulgence will accuse.

Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss

Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven.

For so I created them free and free they must remain.

Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.

Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep...

Our cure, to be no more; sad cure!

Solitude sometimes is best society.

This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.

Thou art my father, thou my author, thou my being gav'st me; whom should I obey but thee, whom follow?

The palpable obscure.

Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.

Better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven.

Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.

Men of most renowned virtue have sometimes by transgressing most truly kept the law.

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.

The brazen throat of war had ceased to roar, All now was turned to jollity and game, To luxury and riot, feast and dance.

At last he rose, and twitched his Mantle blue Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.

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

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.

The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character thereby.

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

Lives there who loves his pain!

Better had I
Lived ignorant of future!

So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, Farewell remorse all good to me is lost. Evil, be thou my good.

God is thy law, thou mine to know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise.

To many a youth and many a maid Dancing in the chequer'd shade.

Far off his coming shone.

His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.

So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.

Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell From heaven for ev'n in heaven his looks and thoughts Were always downward bent, admiring more The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden gold, Than aught divine or holy else enjoy'd In vision beatific.

So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.

Hide me from day's garish eye.

Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's garb, counseled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth, not peace.

Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.

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

Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.

That power Which erring men call Chance.

For Son of God to me is yet in doubt.

That practis'd falsehood under saintly shew, Deep malice to conceal, couch'd with revenge.

Money brings honor, friends, conquest, and realms.

Where no hope is left, is left no fear.

Proserpine gathering flowers, Herself a fairer flower.

These my sky-robes spun out of Iris' woof.

See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, With joy and love triumphing.

And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.

Th'invention all admir'd, and each, how he To be th'inventor miss'd so easy it seem'd once found, which yet unfound most would have thought impossible.

And touch'd by her fair tendance, gladlier grew.

Hence vain, deluding joys, The brood of folly without father bred.