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Oh, shame to men! devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Creatures
Concord
Men
Disagree
Holds
Firm
Damn
Rational
Shame
Devil

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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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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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Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.
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Spirits that live throughout, Vital in every part, not as frail man, In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins, Cannot but by annihilating die.
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The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to the possessor.
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Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
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Hate is of all things the mightiest divider, nay, is division itself. To couple hatred, therefore, though wedlock try all her golden links, and borrow to tier aid all the iron manacles and fetters of law, it does but seek to twist a rope of sand.
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The spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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Our country is where ever we are well off.
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Luck is the residue of design.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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Hide me from day's garish eye.
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.
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