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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Must
Dispensation
Herein
Quarrel
Quarrels
Providence
Reach
Highest
Ends
Haply
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Virtue hath no tongue to check vice's pride.
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Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh to lose thee were to lose myself.
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But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
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His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.
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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.
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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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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.
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.
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Thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers.
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The starry cope Of heaven.
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Where all life dies death lives.
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The spirits perverse with easy intercourse pass to and fro, to tempt or punish mortals.
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For Solomon, he lived at ease, and full Of honour, wealth, high fare, aimed not beyond Higher design than to enjoy his state.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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If we think we regulate printing, thereby to rectify manners, we must regulate all regulations and pastimes, all that is delightful to man.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.
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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.
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