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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Ink
Printing
Presses
Press
Blood

More quotes by John Milton

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But God himself is truth in propagating which, as men display a greater integrity and zeal, they approach nearer to the similitude of God, and possess a greater portion of his love.
John Milton
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Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.
John Milton
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We read not that Christ ever exercised force but once and that was to drive profane ones out of his Temple, not to force them in.
John Milton
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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
John Milton
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
John Milton
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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.
John Milton
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And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.
John Milton
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The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
John Milton
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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?
John Milton
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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
John Milton
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Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.
John Milton
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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
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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
John Milton
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So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.
John Milton
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A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
John Milton
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
John Milton
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Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.
John Milton
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
John Milton
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
John Milton
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
John Milton