Quotes by John Milton

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John Milton (December 9, 1608 November 8, 1674) was an English poet, best-known for his epic poem Paradise Lost. more

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The mind is its own place, and in itself can make heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.
But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself is his own dungeon.
They also serve who only stand and wait.
What reinforcement we may gain from hope; If not, what resolution from despair.
Where no hope is left, is left no fear.
Nothing profits more than self-esteem, grounded on what is just and right.
Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
Prudence is the virtue by which we discern what is proper to do under various circumstances in time and place.
A short retirement urges a sweet return.
He who reins within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king
The end of learning is to know God, and out of that knowledge to love Him and imitate Him.
Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen, both when we sleep and when we awake.
These two imparadised in one another's arms, the happier Eden, shall enjoy their fill of bliss on bliss.
What call thou solitude? Is not the earth with various living creatures, and the air replenished, and all these at thy command to come and play before thee?
Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.
None can love freedom heartily, but good men... the rest love not freedom, but license.
Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image, but thee who destroys a good book, kills reason itself.
Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods thyself a Goddess.
Tears such as angels weep.
Sweet bird, that shun the noise of folly, most musical, most melancholy!
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks. Methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure, all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train.
Peace has her victories which are no less renowned than war.
How charming is divine philosophy! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, but musical as is Apollo's lute, and a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, where no crude surfeit reigns.
And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, consult how we may henceforth most offend.
Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
From man or angel the great Architect did wisely to conceal, and not divulge his secrets to be scanned by them who ought rather admire; or if they list to try conjecture, he his fabric of the heavens left to their disputes, perhaps to move his laughter at their quaint opinions wide hereafter, when they come to model heaven calculate the stars, how they will wield the mighty frame, how build, unbuild, contrive to save appearances, how gird the sphere with centric and eccentric scribbled o'er, and epicycle, orb in orb.
License they mean when they cry liberty.
A crown, golden in show is but a wreath of thorns.
For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
Our country is where ever we are well off.
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.
Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.
It is not miserable to be blind; it is miserable to be incapable of enduring blindness.
What wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbear without the knowledge of evil? He that can apprehend and consider vice with all her baits and seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, he is the true wayfaring Christian.
How gladly would I meet mortality, my sentence, and be earth in sensible! how glad would lay me down, as in my mother's lap! There I should rest, and sleep secure.
With thee conversing I forget all time.
When complaints are freely heard, deeply considered and speedily reformed, then is the utmost bound of civil liberty attained that wise men look for.
Good, the more communicated, more abundant grows.
This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, our great redemption from above did bring.
The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.
Tis chastity, my brother, chastity. She that has that is clad in complete steel, and like a quivered nymph with arrows keen may trace huge forests and unharbored heaths, infamous hills and sandy perilous wilds, where through the sacred rays of chastity, no savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer will dare to soil her virgin purity.
He that has light within his own clear breast may sit in the center, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts benighted walks under the mid-day sun;
Fear of change perplexes monarchs.
As good almost kill a man as kill a good book; who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye.
Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a certain potency of life in them, to be as active as the soul whose progeny they are; they preserve, as in a vial, the purest efficacy and extraction of the living intellect that bred them.
A good book is the precious life-blood of the master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose for a life beyond.
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.
Deep versed in books and shallow in himself.
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.
To be blind is not miserable; not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
Adam inquires concerning celestial motions, is doubtfully answered, and exhorted to search rather things more worthy of knowledge.
Lords are lordliest in their wine.
Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers; nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.