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Meanwhile the Adversary of God and man, Satan with thoughts inflamed of highest design, Puts on swift wings, and towards the gates of hell Explores his solitary flight.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Men
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Flight
Adversary
Wings
Meanwhile
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Swift
Highest
Adversaries
Thoughts
Solitary
Design
Gates
Hell
Satan
Inflamed
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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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So glistered the dire Snake , and into fraud Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the Tree Of Prohibition, root of all our woe.
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O why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest heav'n With Spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men as angels without feminine, Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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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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God sure esteems the growth and completing of one virtuous person, more that the restraint of ten vicious.
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Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.
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The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burthensome, still paying, still to owe Forgetful what from him I still receivd, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and dischargd what burden then?
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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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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character thereby.
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It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
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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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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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It were a journey like the path to heaven, To help you find them.
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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