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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Hear
Noses
Song
Folly
Even
Woods
Thee
Musical
Bird
Nightingales
Among
Melancholy
Sweet
Nose
More quotes by John Milton
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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For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard in the glorious enterprise.
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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O Conscience, into what abyss of fears And horrors hast thou driven me, out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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Dark with excessive bright.
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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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Reason is also choice.
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Such joy ambition finds.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
John Milton
This is servitude, To serve th'unwise, or him who hath rebelled Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee, Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled.
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