John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless.

No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.

None can love freedom heartily, but good men; the rest love not freedom, but license.

For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrower, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè.

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.

New Presbyter is but Old Priest writ Large.

Men of most renowned virtue have sometimes by transgressing most truly kept the law.

Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.

Let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live.

Truth...never comes into the world but like a bastard, to the ignominy of him that brought her forth.

they who have put out the people's eyes, reproach them of their blindness

I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.

His words ... like so many nimble and airy servitors trip about him at command.

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

By labor 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.

A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

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

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warbl'st at eve, when all the woods are still.

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race: Call on the lazy leaden-stepping Hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely …

Under the shady roof Of branching elm star-proof.

Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground.

Captain or Colonel, or Knight in Arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If ever deed of honour did thee please, Guard them, and him within protect from harms.