John Milton Quotes on Milton
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Areopagitica (1644)
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Samson Agonistes (1671)
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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.
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Captain or Colonel, or Knight in Arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If ever deed of honour did thee please, Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.
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His words ... like so many nimble and airy servitors trip about him at command.
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I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
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Men of most renowned virtue have sometimes by transgressing most truly kept the law.
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Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate one jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up, and steer Right onward.
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That old man eloquent.
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By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.
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From haunted spring and dale Edged with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.
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While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before, Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn.
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Meadows trim, with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and balements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.
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Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize.
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And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild, And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
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Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
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Hence vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred!
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear As may, with sweetness, through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
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The gadding vine.
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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.
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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
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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.