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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
Brought
Liberty
Strenuous
Nations
Servitude
Gone
Chooses
Men
Corrupt
Bondage
Devices
Ease
More quotes by John Milton
And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.
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Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne.
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Here the great art lies, to discern in what the law is to be to restraint and punishment, and in what things persuasion only is to work.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
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To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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Nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study household good, And good works in her husband to promote.
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Fame is the last infirmity of the human mind.
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They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness.
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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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The childhood shows the man As morning shows the day. Be famous then By wisdom as thy empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o'er all the world.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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The great creator from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a world.
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Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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