To our destruction, if there be in hell

Fear to be worse destroyed. What can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemn'd

In this abhorred deep to utter woe;
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Must exercise us, without hope of end,
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge
Inexorable, and the torturing hour,

Call us to penance? More destroy'd than thus,
We should be quite abolish'd, and expire.
What fear we, then? what doubt we to incense
His utmost ire? which, to the height enraged,
Will either quite consume us, and reduce
To nothing this essential (happier far
Than miserable to have eternal being):
Or, if our substance be indeed divine,
And cannot cease to be, we are, at worst,
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel
Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven,
And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne;
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.'

He ended frowning, and his look denounced Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous To less than gods. On the other side up rose Belial, in act more graceful and humane; A fairer person lost not heaven; he seem'd For dignity composed, and high exploit: But all was false and hollow; though his tongue Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear

The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low:
To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds
Timorous and slothful: yet he pleased the ear,
And with persuasive accent thus began:

"I should be much for open war, O peers,
As not behind in hate, if what was urged
Main reason to persuade immediate war,
Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast
Ominous conjecture on the whole success;
When he, who most excels in fact of arms,
In what he counsels, and in what excels,
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair
And utter dissolution, as the scope

Of all his aim, after some dire revenge.

First, what revenge? The towers of heaven are fill'd

With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable: oft on the bordering deep
Encamp their legions; or, with obscure wing,
Scout far and wide into the realm of night,
Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way
By force, and at our heels all hell should rise,
With blackest insurrection, to confound
Heaven's purest light; yet our great enemy,
All incorruptible, would on his throne
Sit unpolluted: and the ethereal mould,
Incapable of stain, would soon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope
Is flat despair: me mus xasperate

And who knows,

The Almighty Victor to spend all his rage,
And that must end us; that must be our cure-
To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being—
Those thoughts that wander through eternity,
To perish rather, swallow'd up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated night,
Devoid of sense and motion?
Let this be good, whether our angry foe
Can give it, or will ever? How he can,
Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure.
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire,
Belike through impotence, or unaware,
To give his enemies their wish, and end
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves
To punish endless? Wherefore cease we, then?
Say they who counsel war, We are decreed,
Reserved, and destined to eternal woe;
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more—
What can we suffer worse? Is this, then, worst--
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?
What! when we fled amain, pursued, and struck
With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought
The deep to shelter us? This hell then seem'd
A refuge from those wounds; or when we lay
Chain'd on the burning lake? That sure was

worse.

What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, And plunge us in the flames? or, from above, Should intermitted vengeance arm again

His red right hand to plague us? What if all
Her stores were open'd, and this firmament
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire?
Impendent horrors! threatening hideous fall
One day upon our heads; while we, perhaps,
Designing or exhorting glorious war,

Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurl'd
Each on his rock transfix'd, the sport and prey
Of racking whirlwinds; or for ever sunk
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains,
There to converse with everlasting groans,
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved,

Ages of hopeless end? This would be worse.
War, therefore, open or conceal'd, alike

My voice dissuades; for what can force or guile With him, or who deceive his mind, whose eye Views all things at one view? He from heaven's

height

All these our motions vain sees and derides:

Not more almighty to resist our might,

Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles. Shall we, then, live thus vile, the race of heaven Thus trampled, thus expell'd, to suffer here

Chains and these torments? Better these than

worse,

By my advice; since fate inevitable
Subdues us, and omnipotent decree;
The Victor's will. To suffer, as to do,
Our strength is equal, nor the law unjust
That so ordains: this was at first resolved,
If we were wise, against so great a foe

Contending, and so doubtful what might fall.
I laugh, when those who at the spear are bold
And venturous, if that fail them, shrink and fear
What yet they know must follow, to endure
Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain,
The sentence of their Conqueror: this is now
Our doom; which, if we can sustain and bear,
Our supreme foe, in time, may much remit
His anger; and, perhaps, thus far removed,
Not mind us not offending, satisfied

With what is punish'd; whence these raging fires
Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames.
Our purer essence then will overcome

Their noxious vapour; or, inured, not feel;
Or, changed at length, and to the place conform'd
In temper and in nature, will receive

Familiar the fierce heat, and void of pain;

This horror will grow mild, this darkness, light; Besides what hope the never-ending flight

Of future days may bring; what chance, what change

Worth waiting; since our present lot appears
For happy, though but ill; for ill, not worst,
If we procure not to ourselves more woe."
Thus Belial with words clothed in reason's garb,
Counsell'd ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth,
Not peace; and after him thus Mammon spake :
"Either to disenthrone the King of heaven
We war, if war be best, or to regain

Our own right lost: him to unthrone we then
May hope, when everlasting fate shall yield