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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Still
Infinite
Opens
Way
Deep
Lowest
Hell
Lower
Shall
Miserable
Suffering
Suffer
Heaven
Wide
Ning
Stills
Despair
Devour
Seems
Threat
Wrath
More quotes by John Milton
From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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Let no man seek Henceforth to be foretold that shall befall Him or his children.
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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
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Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, Covering the earth with odours, fruits, flocks, Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, But all to please and sate the curious taste?
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Danger will wink on opportunity.
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Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half
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Be lowly wise: Think only what concerns thee and thy being.
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Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
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Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
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Now came still evening on and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied for beast and bird, They to they grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.
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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
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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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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
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What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
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