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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Greece
Motherhood
Arts
Eye
Mother
Athenians
Art
Oratory
Athens
Eloquence

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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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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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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.
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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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No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.
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As therefore the state of man now is, what wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbear, without the knowledge of good and evil?
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All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.
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Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne.
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This is servitude, To serve th'unwise, or him who hath rebelled Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee, Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled.
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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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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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Heaven Is as the Book of God before thee set, Wherein to read His wondrous works.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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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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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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