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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Mind
Noble
Spurs
Fame
Delights
Days
Doth
Clear
Scorn
Lasts
Raise
Shears
Last
Reputation
Laborious
Spirit
Raises
Spur
Live
Delight
Infirmity
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The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burthensome, still paying, still to owe Forgetful what from him I still receivd, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and dischargd what burden then?
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
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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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No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.
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He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun Himself his own dungeon.
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Believe and be confirmed.
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Indu'd With sanctity of reason.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round
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By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.
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A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses
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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.
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The planets in their station list'ning stood.
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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