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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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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Drive
Ones
Read
Christ
Force
Exercised
Ever
Profane
Temple
Temples

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The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.
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Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.
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Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.
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Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowy expiations weak.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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Nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study household good, And good works in her husband to promote.
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What boots it at one gate to make defence, And at another to let in the foe?
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Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to the possessor.
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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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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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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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Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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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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In discourse more sweet For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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