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All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Courage
Study
Hate
Lost
Unconquerable
Never
Submit
Yield
Immortal
Revenge

More quotes by John Milton

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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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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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When we speak of knowing God, it must be understood with reference to man's limited powers of comprehension. God, as He really is, is far beyond man's imagination, let alone understanding. God has revealed only so much of Himself as our minds can conceive and the weakness of our nature can bear.
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Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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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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A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond / Frightened the reign of Chaos and old Night.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.
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It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
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But that from us aught should ascend to Heav'n So prevalent as to concern the mind Of God, high-bless'd, or to incline His will, Hard to belief may seem yet this will prayer.
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Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.
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Now came still evening on and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied for beast and bird, They to they grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.
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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 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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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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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.
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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