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Nor love thy life, nor hate but what thou livest, Live well how long, or short, permit to Heaven.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Hate
Live
Wells
Well
Long
Permit
Love
Thou
Life
Short
Heaven

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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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O when meet now Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
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This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.
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Prudence is the virtue by which we discern what is proper to do under various circumstances in time and place.
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Heav'nly love shall outdoo Hellish hate
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Assuredly we bring not innocence not the world, we bring impurity much rather: that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary.
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Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.
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Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half
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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.
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For books are as meats and viands are some of good, some of evil sub-stance.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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For the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.
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Fame is the last infirmity of the human mind.
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Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.
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Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
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Time, though in Eternity, applied To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future.
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