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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Argues
Unknown
Arguing
Fame

More quotes by John Milton

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But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began.
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The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair that ever since in love's embraces met -- Adam, the goodliest man of men since born his sons the fairest of her daughters Eve.
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Nor from hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.
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And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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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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Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
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Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round
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Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
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Fame is the last infirmity of the human mind.
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Our cure, to be no more sad cure!
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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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Perplexed and troubled at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope.
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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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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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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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