Quote

The childhood shows the man As morning shows the day. Be famous then By wisdom as thy empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o'er all the world.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
World
Ambition
Childhood
Wisdom
Morning
Shows
Extend
Must
Empire
Mind
Empires
Men
Famous

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Freely we serve, Because we freely love, as in our will To love or not in this we stand or fall.
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Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.
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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
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The teachers of our law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own.
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The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character thereby.
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Ornate rhetorick taught out of the rule of Plato.... To which poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less suttle and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
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If there be any difference among professed believers as to the sense of Scripture, it is their duty to tolerate such difference in each other, until God shall have revealed the truth to all.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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And, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
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For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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So glistered the dire Snake , and into fraud Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the Tree Of Prohibition, root of all our woe.
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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.
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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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