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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Back
Fugitive
Add
Punishment
False
Speed
Wings

More quotes by John Milton

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And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.
John Milton
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Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.
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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men Unless there be who think not God at all.
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Myself, and all the Angelic Host, that stand in the sight of God enthroned, our happy state hold, as you yours, while our obedience hold. On other surety none: freely we serve, because we freely love.
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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For truth is strong next to the Almighty. She needs no policies or stratagems or licensings to make her victorious. These are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power.
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.
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Thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon.
John Milton