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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Truth
Mountain
Stocks
Whose
Saints
Pure
Fathers
Cold
Mountains
Alpine
Lord
Saint
Avenge
Forget
Bones
Slaughtered
Lying
Kept
Worshipped
Father
Stones
Scattered
More quotes by John Milton
Freely we serve, Because we freely love, as in our will To love or not in this we stand or fall.
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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When language in common use in any country becomes irregular and depraved, it is followed by their ruin and degradation. For what do terms used without skill or meaning, which are at once corrupt and misapplied, denote but a people listless, supine, and ripe for servitude?
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And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
John Milton
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
The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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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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Truth and understanding are not such wares as to be monopolized and traded in by tickets and statutes and standards. We must not think to make a staple commodity of all the knowledge in the land, to mark and license it like our broadcloth and our woolpacks.
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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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Solitude sometimes is best society.
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Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.
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My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.
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It is Chastity, my brother. She that has that is clad in complete steel.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all but torture without end.
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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?
John Milton
Hide me from day's garish eye.
John Milton