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Day and night, Seed-time and harvest, heat and hoary frost Shall hold their course, till fire purge all things new.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Things
Seeds
Time
Till
Hold
Hoary
Shall
Purge
Fire
Frost
Courses
Harvest
Course
Seed
Night
Heat
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Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.
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Courage never to submit of yield.
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Spirits that live throughout, Vital in every part, not as frail man, In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins, Cannot but by annihilating die.
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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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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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My sentence is for open war.
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Evil, be thou my good.
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I call a complete and generous education that which fits a man to perform justly, skillfully, and magnanimously all the offices, both private and public, of peace and war.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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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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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.
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For books are as meats and viands are some of good, some of evil sub-stance.
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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.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
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Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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