Good luck befriend thee, Son; for at thy birth
More quotes by John Milton
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.
Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
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In the fields of observation chance favors only the prepared mind.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em.
O Fortune, cruellest of heavenly powers,
Why make such game of this poor life of ours?
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.