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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.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
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Palms
Branching
Shade
Cedar
Theatre
Cedars
Scene
Ascend
View
Pine
Views
Ranks
Palm
Woody
More quotes by John Milton
Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.
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It is not good that man should be alone. ... Hitherto all things that have been named, were approved of God to be very good: loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good: whether it be a thing, or the want of something, I labour not.
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Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.
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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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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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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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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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Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
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For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
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Let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live.
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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Death to life is crown or shame.
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Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
John Milton
Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half
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Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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