John Milton Quotes

And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

Who overcomes
By force, hath overcome but half his foe.

Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.

The mind is a universe and can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

Ah, why should all mankind
For one man's fault, be condemned,
If guiltless?

What though the field be lost?
All is not Lost; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And the courage never to submit or yeild.

How can I live without thee, how forego
Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined,
To live again in these wild woods forlorn?
Should God create another Eve, and I
Another rib afford, yet loss of thee
Would never from my heart; no, no, I feel
The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh,
Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state
Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.

They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms:
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide;
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.

And that must end us, that must be our cure:
To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Those thoughts that wander through eternity,
To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated night
Devoid of sense and motion?

Luck is the residue of design.

From his lips/Not words alone pleased her.

Where the bright seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.

Farewell happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.

Our cure, to be no more; sad cure!