John Milton

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

Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n.

Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n!

Long is the way And hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.

Abashed the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely.

Solitude sometimes is best society.

The childhood shows the man, As morning shows the day.

He who reigns within himself, and rules Passions, desires, and fears, is more than a king.

For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.

A good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.

Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.

I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and seeks her adversary, but slinks out of the race, where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.

Who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter?

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks.

Peace hath her victories No less renown'd than War.

What is strength, without a double share Of wisdom?

All is best, though we oft doubt, What the unsearchable dispose Of highest wisdom brings about.

Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.

For what is glory but the blaze of fame, The people's praise, if always praise they give, And oft as blame too rashly they confer?

He who destroys a good book, kills reason itself.