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The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Sunbeams
Gay
People
Motes
More quotes by John Milton
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.
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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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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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Lords are lordliest in their wine.
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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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Heaven Is as the Book of God before thee set, Wherein to read His wondrous works.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
John Milton
Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
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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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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
John Milton
Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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Luck is the residue of design.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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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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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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Yet much remains To conquer still peace hath her victories No less renowned then war, new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.
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