John Milton Quotes, God Quotes, Eye Quotes

What can 'scape the eye Of God, all-seeing, or deceive His heart. Omniscient!

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Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.

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Perplexed and troubled at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope.

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To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

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And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.

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Or if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

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Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.

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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.

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All hell broke loose.

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Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.

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He who destroys a good book kills reason itself.

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What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?

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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.

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Hide me from day's garish eye.

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For what is glory but the blaze of fame?

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For men to tell how human life began Is hard; for who himself beginning knew?

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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.

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Heaven open'd wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving.

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The other shape, If shape it might be call'd that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, For each seem'd either,--black it stood as night, Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, And shook a dreadful dart; what seem'd his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on. Satan was now at hand.

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