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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Powers
Remain
Merely
Virtue
Dominions
Dominion
Thrones
Virtues
Titles

More quotes by John Milton

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Who can in reason then or right assume monarchy over such as live by right his equals, if in power or splendor less, in freedom equal?
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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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Here we may reign secure and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell: Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.
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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?
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Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.
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The end of all learning is to know God, and out of that knowledge to love and imitate Him.
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
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With eyes Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd. Imparadised in one another's arms. With thee conversing I forget all time. And feel that I am happier than I know.
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My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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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?
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
John Milton