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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Enough
Persecution
Justify
Tolerance
Sure
Society
Religion
Truth

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Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastic toe.
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Courage never to submit of yield.
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By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.
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Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny for no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.
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Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
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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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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
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I call a complete and generous education that which fits a man to perform justly, skillfully, and magnanimously all the offices, both private and public, of peace and war.
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But all was false and hollow though his tongue Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, 4 to perplex and dash Maturest counsels.
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Lords are lordliest in their wine.
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs By the known rules of ancient liberty, When straight a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
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Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.
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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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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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