Quotes
Quotes - Milton
What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones,--
The labour of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid
Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground.
That old man eloquent.
That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
License they mean when they cry, Liberty!
For who loves that must first be wise and good.
Peace hath her victories
No less renown'd than war.
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
Thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste?
In mirth that after no repenting draws.
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.
Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward.
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
But oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd,
I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.
Have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern god of sea.
For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrowers, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè.
Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
By labour 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.
Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.
His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command.
