Best 743 quotes of John Milton on MyQuotes

Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.

A beardless cynic is the shame of nature.

A bevy of fair women.

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

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

A broad and ample road, whose dust is gold, And pavement stars,--as stars to thee appear Seen in the galaxy, that milky way Which nightly as a circling zone thou seest Powder'd with stars.

Accuse not nature: she hath done her part; Do thou but thine.

A crown Golden in show, is but a wreath of thorns, Bring dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights To him who wears the regal diadem

A death-like sleep, A gentle wafting to immortal life.

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.

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

A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.

A grateful mind/ By owing owes not, but still pays, at once/ Indebted and discharg'd.

A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old, Where armies whole have sunk: the parching air Burns frore, and cold performs th' effect of fire. Thither by harpy-footed Furies hal'd, At certain revolutions all the damn'd Are brought, and feel by turns the bitter change Of fierce extremes,-extremes by change more fierce; From beds of raging fire to starve in ice Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine Immovable, infix'd, and frozen round, Periods of time; thence hurried back to fire.

Ah gentle pair, ye little think how nigh Your change approaches, when all these delights Will vanish and deliver ye to woe, More woe, the more your taste is now of joy.

Alas! What boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted Shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless muse; Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life.

A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.

All hell broke loose.

All hope is lost of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left, is left no fear.

A man may be ungrateful, but the human race is not so.

Among unequals what society Can sort, what harmony, or true delight?

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.

Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny; for no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.

And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.

And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.

And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse

And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.

And feel by turns the bitter change Of fierce extremes, extremes by change more fierce.

And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.

And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.

And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.

And in their motions harmony divine So smoothes her charming tones, that God's own ear Listens delighted.

And I will place within them as a guide My umpire conscience, whom if they will hear Light after light well used they shall attain, And to the end persisting, safe arrive.

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.

And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.

And now without redemption all mankind Must have been lost, adjudged to death and hell By doom severe.

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.

And on the Tree of Life, The middle tree and highest there that grew, Sat like a cormorant.

And out of good still to find means of evil.

And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream.

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.

And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, consult how we may henceforth most offend.

And sing to those that hold the vital shears; And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.

And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell; O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe!

And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

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.

And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?

And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.

And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the checkered shade. And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday.

And the more I see Pleasures about me, so much more I feel Torment within me.