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.
Attribution
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