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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Doth
Compulsion
Sweet
Lying
Music

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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
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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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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled.
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To know that which lies before us in daily life is the prime wisdom.
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Behold now this vast city [London] a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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For the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides.
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My sentence is for open war.
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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
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What boots it at one gate to make defence, And at another to let in the foe?
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
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Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
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. . . for beauty stands In the admiration only of weak minds Led captive. Cease to admire, and all her plumes Fall flat and shrink into a trivial toy, At every sudden slighting quite abash'd.
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They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness.
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The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
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O Conscience, into what abyss of fears And horrors hast thou driven me, out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged.
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