Quote #106
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
More from John Milton
- Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.
- 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).
- Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not…
- Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
- The gadding vine.
- The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Beside…
- But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
- Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. …