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Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it others neither have nor deserve it some have it, not deserving it others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Though
Totally
Age
Writers
Others
Neither
Deserve
Deserts
Fame
Deserving
Missing
Ages
Among
Desert
Equal
Miss

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The teachers of our law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own.
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Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blamed enough elsewhere, but strive, In offices of love, how we may lighten each other's burden.
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So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.
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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard in the glorious enterprise.
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I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend.
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Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.
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Behold now this vast city [London] a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection.
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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God, who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through their habitations walks To mark their doings.
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Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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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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It is for homely features to keep home,- They had their name thence coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?
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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.
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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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