Quote

It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.

John Milton

Change background

T
T
T

Change font

TAGS & TOPICS

John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Woman
Merit
Hard
Shape
Shapes
Long
Harder
Love
Strength
Life
Virtue
Valour
Wisdom
Inherit
Winning
Wit

More quotes by John Milton

Image
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.
John Milton
Image
The never-ending flight Of future days.
John Milton
Image
Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
John Milton
Image
On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
John Milton
Image
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks, Safest and seemliest by her husband stays, Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
John Milton
Image
Fear of change perplexes monarchs.
John Milton
Image
And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.
John Milton
Image
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all but torture without end.
John Milton
Image
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.
John Milton
Image
Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled.
John Milton
Image
Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
John Milton
Image
Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
John Milton
Image
Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
John Milton
Image
Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
John Milton
Image
There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
John Milton
Image
The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
John Milton
Image
It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
John Milton
Image
The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
John Milton
Image
A boundless continent, Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of night Starless expos'd.
John Milton
Image
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
John Milton