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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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So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair that ever since in love's embraces met -- Adam, the goodliest man of men since born his sons the fairest of her daughters Eve.
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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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
John Milton
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Earth felt the wound and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.
John Milton
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
John Milton
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To live a life half dead, a living death.
John Milton
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Lords are lordliest in their wine.
John Milton
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This horror will grow mild, this darkness light Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
John Milton
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In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
John Milton
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
John Milton
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Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to the possessor.
John Milton
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
John Milton
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Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
John Milton
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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.
John Milton
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The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
John Milton
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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.
John Milton
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What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
John Milton
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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
John Milton
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God sure esteems the growth and completing of one virtuous person, more that the restraint of ten vicious.
John Milton
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Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves.
John Milton