Quotes
Quotes - Milton
How charming is divine philosophy!
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo's lute,
And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets
Where no crude surfeit reigns.
And sweeten'd every musk-rose of the dale.
Fill'd the air with barbarous dissonance.
I was all ear,
And took in strains that might create a soul
Under the ribs of death.
That power
Which erring men call Chance.
If this fail,
The pillar'd firmament is rottenness,
And earth's base built on stubble.
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it,
But in another country, as he said,
Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil;
Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain
Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
Enter'd the very lime-twigs of his spells,
And yet came off.
This cordial julep here,
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds.
Budge doctors of the Stoic fur.
And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.
It is for homely features to keep home,--
They had their name thence; coarse complexions
And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply
The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool.
What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that,
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?
Swinish gluttony
Ne'er looks to heav'n amidst his gorgeous feast,
But with besotted base ingratitude
Crams, and blasphemes his feeder.
Enjoy your dear wit and gay rhetoric,
That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence.
His rod revers'd,
And backward mutters of dissevering power.
Sabrina fair,
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair.
But now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly, or I can run.
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heav'n itself would stoop to her.
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
He knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Under the opening eyelids of the morn.
But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return!
The gadding vine.
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse.
