John Milton Quotes on Man (25 Quotes)

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

Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

The childhood shows the man, As morning shows the day. Be famous then By wisdom as thy empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o'er all the world.

Childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.

As good almost kill a man as kill a good book who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, Gods image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye.

None can love freedom heartily, but good men; the rest love not freedom, but licence.

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain Blind among enemies, O worse than chains, dungeon or beggary, or decrepit age Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, and all her various objects of delight annulled, which might in part my grief have eased. Inferior to the vilest now become of man or worm the vilest here excel me, they creep, yet see I, dark in light, exposed to daily fraud, contempt, abuse and wrong, within doors, or without, still as a fool, in power of others, never in my own scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half.

Where there is much desire to learn, there of necessity will be much arguing, much writing, many opinions for opinion in good men is but knowledge in the making.

Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men.

I may assert Eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to men.

Thus with the year Seasons return but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of Nature's works, to me expung'd and raz'd, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.

Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image, but thee who destroys a good book, kills reason its self.

Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song First taught our English music how to span Words with just note and accent, not to scan With Midas' ears, committing short and long, Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng, With praise enough for envy to look wan To after age thou shalt be writ the man That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue. Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' choir, That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn or story. Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing, Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.

Oh, shame to men devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.

Hail, Son of God, Saviour of Men!

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. 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.

None But such as are good men can give good things, And that which is not good, is not delicious To a well-governd and wise appetite.

Spirits that live throughout, Vital in every part, not as frail man, In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins, Cannot but by annihilating die.

A man may be a heretic in the truth and if he believe things only because his pastor says so, or the assembly so determines, without knowing other reason, though his belief be true, yet the very truth he holds becomes his heresy.

Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve!

Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.

And God made two great lights, great for their useTo Man, the greater to have rule by day,The less by night . . .

Adam the goodliest man of men since born His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.

Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask The conscience, Friend, t' have lost them overplied In liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content, though blind, had I no better guide.