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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Poison
Wine
Sweet
Bacchus
Firsts
Grape
First
Misused
Grapes
Purple
Crush
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Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
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The teachers of our law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own.
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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men Unless there be who think not God at all.
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Hell has no benefits, only torture.
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Let us seek Death, or he not found, supply With our own hands his office on ourselves Why stand we longer shivering under fears, That show no end but death, and have the power, Of many ways to die the shortest choosing, Destruction with destruction to destroy.
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With eyes Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd. Imparadised in one another's arms. With thee conversing I forget all time. And feel that I am happier than I know.
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Gratitude bestows reverence.....changing forever how we experience life and the world.
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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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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Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
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Servant of God, well done! well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintain'd Against revolted multitudes the cause of truth.
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
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Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War.
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.
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This horror will grow mild, this darkness light Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
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Infinity is a dark illimitable ocean, without bound.
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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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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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How gladly would I meet mortality, my sentence, and be earth in sensible! How glad would lay me down, as in my mother's lap! There I should rest, and sleep secure.
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