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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Sea
Sorrow
Deep
Wept
Seas
Sorrows

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Our country is where ever we are well off.
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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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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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Oh, shame to men! devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.
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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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Knowledge forbidden? Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord Envy them that? Can it be sin to know, Can it be death? And do they only stand By ignorance? Is that their happy state, The proof of their obedience and their faith? O fair foundation laid whereon to build Their ruin!
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
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He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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Let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon.
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It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
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You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.
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Satan so call him now, his former name Is heard no more in heaven.
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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
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Such joy ambition finds.
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