Quote

Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Shells
Embroidered
Echoes
Vale
Unseen
Nymphs
Slow
Airy
Green
Violet
Within
Echo
Shell
Meander
Sweetest
Nymph

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And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.
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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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Oh, shame to men! devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.
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Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
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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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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.
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No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.
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On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
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Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene, and as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view.
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Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss
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His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
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Luck is the residue of design.
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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War.
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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Let no man seek Henceforth to be foretold that shall befall Him or his children.
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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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