John Milton Quotes

For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrower, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè.

For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

New Presbyter is but Old Priest writ Large.

Men of most renowned virtue have sometimes by transgressing most truly kept the law.

Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.

Let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live.

Truth...never comes into the world but like a bastard, to the ignominy of him that brought her forth.

So little care they of beasts to make them men, that by their sorcerous doctrine of formalities, they take the way to transform them out of Christian men into judaizing beasts. Had they but taught the land, or suffered it to be taught, as Christ would it should have been in all plenteous dispensation of the word, then the poor mechanic might have so accustomed his ear to good teaching, as to have discerned between faithful teachers and false. But now, with a most inhuman cruelty, they who have put out the people's eyes, reproach them of their blindness; just as the Pharisees their true fathers were wont, who could not endure that the people should be thought competent judges of Christ's doctrine, although we know they judged far better than those great rabbis: yet “this people,” said they, “that know not the law is accursed.”

His words ... like so many nimble and airy servitors trip about him at command.

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

By labor and intent study (which I take to be my portion in this life), joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die.

A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warbl'st at eve, when all the woods are still.

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race:
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping Hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross.