John Milton Quotes

How soon hath Time the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, By my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arriv'd so near, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n, To that same lot, however mean, or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. How Soon Hath Time (l. 1-14). . . The Complete Poetry of John Milton. John T. Shawcross, ed. (1963, rev. ed. 1971) Doubleday.
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These are thy glorious works, parent of good, Almighty, thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sittest above these heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine: Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels, for ye behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne rejoicing, ye in heaven, On earth join all ye creatures to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. Paradise Lost (l. Bk. V, l. 153-165). . . The Complete Poetry of John Milton. John T. Shawcross, ed. (1963, rev. ed. 1971) Doubleday.
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Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth show, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures Melancholy give, And I with thee will choose to live.
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. Il Penseroso (l. 168-176). . . The Complete Poetry of John Milton. John T. Shawcross, ed. (1963, rev. ed. 1971) Doubleday.
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She, as a veil down to the slender waist, Her unadorned golden tresses wore Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied Subjection, but required with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best received, Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay. Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed: Then was not guilty shame: dishonest Shame Of Nature's works, Honour dishonourable.
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. Paradise Lost (l. Bk. IV, l. 304-314). OBS. The Complete Poetry of John Milton. John T. Shawcross, ed. (1963, rev. ed. 1971) Doubleday.
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Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy!
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. Il Penseroso, l. 61 (written 1631, published 1645).
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Who first seduc'd them to that fowl revolt? Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv'd The Mother of Mankinde, what time his Pride Had cast him out from Heav'n, with all his Host Of Rebel Angels,
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. Paradise Lost (l. Bk. I, l. 33-38). . . The Complete Poetry of John Milton. John T. Shawcross, ed. (1963, rev. ed. 1971) Doubleday.
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Come pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes; There held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble,
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. Il Penseroso (l. 31-42). . . The Complete Poetry of John Milton. John T. Shawcross, ed. (1963, rev. ed. 1971) Doubleday.
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But he his wonted pride Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore Semblance of worth not substance, gently rais'd Thir fainting courage, and dispel'd thir fears.
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. Paradise Lost (l. Bk. I, l. 527-530). FaBoPP. The Complete Poetry of John Milton. John T. Shawcross, ed. (1963, rev. ed. 1971) Doubleday.
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But hail thou Goddess, sage and holy, Hail divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. Il Penseroso (l. 11-16). . . The Complete Poetry of John Milton. John T. Shawcross, ed. (1963, rev. ed. 1971) Doubleday.
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Towards him they bend With awful reverence prone; and as a God Extoll him equal to the highest in Heav'n: Nor fail'd they to express how much they prais'd, That for the general safety he despis'd His own: for neither do the Spirits damn'd Loose all thir vertue; lest bad men should boast Thir specious deeds on earth, which glory excites, Or close ambition varnisht o'er with zeal.
John Milton (1608-1674), British poet. Paradise Lost (l. Bk. II, l. 477-485). . . The Complete Poetry of John Milton. John T. Shawcross, ed. (1963, rev. ed. 1971) Doubleday.
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