Quote

As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Would
Delight
Private
Pebbles
Soon
Solace
Hours
Ring
Language
Shore
Music
Poem
Find
Native
Children
Rings

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Dark with excessive bright.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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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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Where shame is, there is also fear.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond / Frightened the reign of Chaos and old Night.
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Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.
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The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burthensome, still paying, still to owe Forgetful what from him I still receivd, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and dischargd what burden then?
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
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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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Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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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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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
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