When Milton wrote those words, I don't think he meant this. He was attacking the belief that poetry had to rhyme. I know that. I just happen to think that it's often fun to do so. What aren't so fun are the side effects.
What side effects? Why, the urge to rhyme everything (...bring, sing...) that you think (... brink, drink...) or do (...queue, blue...). You go through the day, thinking more about what things rhyme with than about the things themselves. Madness lies this way. I'm serious. Write a few rhyming poems if you don't believe me. I think it's something to do with the urge to use normal life as inspiration. One day you're wondering if it might be possible to write a poem about toast, the next, you're automatically assessing if it has any decent rhymes. (It does. It's particularly handy as a silly rhyme for ghost.)