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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 mortal dross.

— John Milton

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Time

More quotes by John Milton

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

On His Having Arrived at the Age of Twenty-three (1631)

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

The Reason of Church Government (1641)

The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.

Paradise Lost (1667)

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

Apology for Smectymnuus (1642)

Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.

All John Milton quotes →

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You can never plan the future by the past.

Edmund Burke A Letter to a Member of the National Assembly (1791)

Nothing is there to come, and nothing past,
But an eternal now does always last.

Abraham Cowley Poems (1656)

Attribution

Quote text and notes from Wikiquote: John Milton (page history), available under CC BY-SA 4.0. Source quality and labels are our own summary of what Wikiquote records.