Quotes from John Milton

Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy,And moon-struck madness.

Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the cricket on the hearth.

Two of far nobler shape erect and tall,Godlike erect, with native honor cladIn naked majesty seem'd lords of all.

At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

His spear, to equal which the tallest pineHewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mastOf some great ammiral, were but a wand,He walk'd with, to support uneasy stepsOver the burning marle.

Fame, if not double-faced, is double-mouthed,And with contrary blast proclaims most deeds;On both his wings, one black, the other white,Bears greatest names in his wild airy flight.

The infernal serpent; he it was, whose guile,Stirr'd up with envy and revenge, deceiv'dThe mother of mankind.

Before the starry threshold of Jove's CourtMy mansion is.

The sum of earthly bliss.

Far off from these a slow and silent stream,Lethe the river of oblivion rolls.

Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

The olive grove of Academe,Plato's retirement, where the Attic birdTrills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.

A dismal universal hiss, the soundOf public scorn.

I feelThe link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh,Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy stateMine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.

Anon they moveIn perfect phalanx, to the Dorian moodOf flutes and soft recorders.

The evening star,Love's harbinger.

Whence and what art thou, execrable shape?

For evil news rides post, while good news baits.

Midnight shout and revelry,Tipsy dance and jollity.

Out of one man a raceOf men innumerable.

High on a throne of royal state, which farOutshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,Or where the gorgeous East with richest handShowers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,Satan exalted sat, by merit rais'dTo that bad eminence; and from despairThus high uplifted beyond hope, aspiresBeyond thus high, insatiate to pursueVain war with heav'n.

Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power,After offense returning, to regainLove once possess'd.

O welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings!