Quotes
Quotes - Milton
Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe.
Or if Sion hill
Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook, that flow'd
Fast by the oracle of God.
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.
What in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support,
That to the height of this great argument
I may assert eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.
As far as angels' ken.
Yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible.
Where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all.
What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; th' unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield.
To be weak is miserable,
Doing or suffering.
And out of good still to find means of evil.
Farewell happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells: hail, horrors!
A mind not to be chang'd by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
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.
Heard so oft
In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge
Of battle.
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast
Of some great ammiral were but a wand,
He walk'd with to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marle.
Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades
High over-arch'd imbower.
Awake, arise, or be forever fallen!
Spirits when they please
Can either sex assume, or both.
Execute their airy purposes.
When night
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons
Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
Th' imperial ensign, which full high advanc'd
Shone like a meteor, streaming to the wind.
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds:
At which the universal host up sent
A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.
Anon they move
In perfect phalanx, to the Dorian mood
Of flutes and soft recorders.
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.
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs.
