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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Shallow
Deep
Books
Book

More quotes by John Milton

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Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves.
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How gladly would I meet mortality, my sentence, and be earth in sensible! How glad would lay me down, as in my mother's lap! There I should rest, and sleep secure.
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This horror will grow mild, this darkness light Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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He who tempts, though in vain, at last asperses The tempted with dishonor foul, supposed Not incorruptible of faith, not proof Against temptation.
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Servant of God, well done! well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintain'd Against revolted multitudes the cause of truth.
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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love.
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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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What if Earth be but the shadow of Heaven and things therein - each other like, more than on Earth is thought?
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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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Ornate rhetorick taught out of the rule of Plato.... To which poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less suttle and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate.
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Nor love thy life, nor hate but what thou livest, Live well how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
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So little knows Any, but God alone, but perverts best things To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.
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Our two first parents, yet the only two Of mankind, in the happy garden placed, Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love, Uninterrupted joy, unrivalled love In blissful solitude.
John Milton