John Quotes

And feel by turns the bitter change Of fierce extremes, extremes by change more fierce.

My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.

Consider first, that great or bright infers not excellence.

Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed.

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

As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.

There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.

Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy.

The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.

Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.

So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity, That, when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lacky her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.

Virtue that wavers is not virtue.

The work under our labour grows, Luxurious by restraint.

That power Which erring men call Chance.

God sure esteems the growth and completing of one virtuous person, more that the restraint of ten vicious.

Among unequals what society Can sort, what harmony, or true delight?

Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not inthralled; Yea, even that which mischief meant most harm Shall in the happy trial prove most glory.

Knowledge cannot defile, nor consequently the books, if the will and conscience be not defiled.

He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.

Necessity and chance Approach not me, and what I will is fate.

The never-ending flight Of future days.

And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.

A death-like sleep, A gentle wafting to immortal life.

How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?

So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost;Evil,be thou my good.

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

Such bickerings to recount, met often in these our writers, what more worth is it than to chronicle the wars of kites or crows flocking and fighting in the air?

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

The planets in their station list'ning stood.

In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.

Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.

So many laws argues so many sins.

Into this wild abyss, The womb of Nature and perhaps her grave.

Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowy expiations weak.

Subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, Right reason for their law.

Therefore God's universal law Gave to the man despotic power Over his female in due awe, Not from that right to part an hour, Smile she or lour.

In vain doth valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

Good luck befriend thee, Son; for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.

The timely dew of sleep.

Smiles from reason flow, To brute deny'd, and are of love the food.

But what more oft in nations grown corrupt, And by their vices brought to servitude, Than to love bondage more than liberty, Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty.

Death ready stands to interpose his dart.

Accuse not nature: she hath done her part; Do thou but thine.

Let her (Truth) and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?

Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain; if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.

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.

Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?

Nor think thou with wind Of æry threats to awe whom yet with deeds Thou canst not.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!