LITMIR.BIZ

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the first Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss And mad’st it pregnant: What in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support; That to the highth of this great Argument I may assert th’ Eternal Providence, And justifie the wayes of God to men.

      Say first, for Heav’n hides nothing from thy view

       Nor the deep Tract of Hell, say first what cause

       Mov’d our Grand Parents in that happy State,

       Favour’d of Heav’n so highly, to fall off

       From their Creator, and transgress his Will

       For one restraint, Lords of the World besides?

       Who first seduc’d them to that fowl revolt?

       Th’ infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile

       Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv’d

       The Mother of Mankinde, what time his Pride

       Had cast him out from Heav’n, with all his Host

       Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring

       To set himself in Glory above his Peers,

       He trusted to have equal’d the most High,

       If he oppos’d; and with ambitious aim

       Against the Throne and Monarchy of God

       Rais’d impious War in Heav’n and Battel proud

       With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power

       Hurld headlong flaming from th’ Ethereal Skie

       With hideous ruine and combustion down

       To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

       In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire,

       Who durst defie th’ Omnipotent to Arms.

       Nine times the Space that measures Day and Night

       To mortal men, he with his horrid crew

       Lay vanquisht, rowling in the fiery Gulfe

       Confounded though immortal: But his doom

       Reserv’d him to more wrath; for now the thought

       Both of lost happiness and lasting pain

       Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes

       That witness’d huge affliction and dismay

       Mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate:

       At once as far as Angels kenn he views

       The dismal Situation waste and wilde,

       A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round

       As one great Furnace flam’d, yet from those flames

       No light, but rather darkness visible

       Serv’d only to discover sights of woe,

       Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace

       And rest can never dwell, hope never comes

       That comes to all; but torture without end

       Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed

       With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum’d:

       Such place Eternal Justice had prepar’d

       For those rebellious, here their Prison ordain’d

       In utter darkness, and their portion set

       As far remov’d from God and light of Heav’n

       As from the Center thrice to th’ utmost Pole.

       O how unlike the place from whence they fell!

       There the companions of his fall, o’rewhelm’d

       With Floods and Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,

       He soon discerns, and weltring by his side

       One next himself in power, and next in crime,

       Long after known in Palestine, and nam’d Beelzebub. To whom th’ Arch-Enemy, And thence in Heav’n call’d Satan, with bold words Breaking the horrid silence thus began.

      If thou beest he; But O how fall’n! how chang’d

       From him, who in the happy Realms of Light

       Cloth’d with transcendent brightnes didst outshine

       Myriads though bright: If he whom mutual league,

       United thoughts and counsels, equal hope,

       And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize,

       Joynd with me once, now misery hath joynd

       In equal ruin: into what Pit thou seest

       From what highth fal’n, so much the stronger provd

       He with his Thunder: and till then who knew

       The force of those dire Arms? yet not for those

       Nor what the Potent Victor in his rage

       Can else inflict do I repent or change,

       Though chang’d in outward lustre; that fixt mind

       And high disdain, from sence of injur’d merit,

       That with the mightiest rais’d me to contend,

       And to the fierce contention brought along

       Innumerable force of Spirits arm’d

       That durst dislike his reign, and me preferring,

       His utmost power with adverse power oppos’d

       In dubious Battel on the Plains of Heav’n,

       And shook his throne. What though the field be lost?

       All is not lost; the unconquerable Will,

       And study of revenge, immortal hate,

       And courage never to submit or yield:

       And what is else not to be overcome?

       That Glory never shall his wrath or might

       Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace

       With suppliant knee, and deifie his power

       Who from the terrour of this Arm so late

       Doubted his Empire, that were low indeed,

       That were an ignominy and shame beneath

       This downfall; since by Fate the strength of Gods

       And this Empyreal substance cannot fail,

       Since through experience of this great event

       In Arms not worse, in foresight much advanc’t,

       We may with more successful hope resolve

       To wage by force or guile eternal Warr

       Irreconcileable, to our grand Foe,

       Who now triumphs, and in th’ excess of joy

       Sole reigning holds the Tyranny of Heav’n.

      So spake th’ Apostate Angel, though in pain,

       Vaunting aloud, but rackt with deep despare:

       And him thus answer’d soon his bold Compeer.

      O Prince, O Chief of many Throned Powers,

       That led th’ imbattelld Seraphim to Warr

       Under thy conduct, and in dreadful deeds

       Fearless, endanger’d Heav’ns perpetual King;

       And put to proof his high Supremacy,

       Whether upheld by strength, or Chance, or Fate,

       Too well I see and rue the dire event,

       That with sad overthrow and foul defeat

       Hath lost us Heav’n, and all this mighty Host

       In horrible destruction laid thus low,

      

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