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Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Despair
Stains
Soon
Mischief
Baser
Fire
Flat
Expel
Hope
Flats
Purge
Would
Incapable
Ethereal
Final
Stain
Finals
Victorious
Thus
Mould
More quotes by John Milton
The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.
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Let us seek Death, or he not found, supply With our own hands his office on ourselves Why stand we longer shivering under fears, That show no end but death, and have the power, Of many ways to die the shortest choosing, Destruction with destruction to destroy.
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O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
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In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs.
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.
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This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.
John Milton
If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled.
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But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began.
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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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Prudence is the virtue by which we discern what is proper to do under various circumstances in time and place.
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And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.
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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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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.
John Milton
Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
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With thee conversing I forget all time.
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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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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