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How oft, in nations gone corrupt, And by their own devices brought down to servitude, That man chooses bondage before liberty. Bondage with ease before strenuous liberty.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Men
Corrupt
Bondage
Devices
Ease
Brought
Liberty
Strenuous
Nations
Servitude
Gone
Chooses
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness.
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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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The pious and just honoring of ourselves may be thought the fountainhead from whence every laudable and worthy enterprise issues forth.
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A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
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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.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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For truth is strong next to the Almighty. She needs no policies or stratagems or licensings to make her victorious. These are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power.
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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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With eyes Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd. Imparadised in one another's arms. With thee conversing I forget all time. And feel that I am happier than I know.
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.
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So little knows Any, but God alone, but perverts best things To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
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Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
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Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blamed enough elsewhere, but strive, In offices of love, how we may lighten each other's burden.
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