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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Hate
Sphere
Tell
Spheres
States
Fell
Glorious
Thee
Sun
Beams
Bring
Beam
State
Remembrance
More quotes by John Milton
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
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Lords are lordliest in their wine.
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Evil into the mind of god or man may come and go, so unapproved, and leave no spot or blame behind.
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On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
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Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
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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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The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.
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Eloquence the soul, song charms the senses.
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost
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Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
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