IGH on a throne of royal ftate, which far
Or where the gorgeous east with richest hand Show'rs on her kings barbaric pearl and gold, Satan exalted fat, by merit rais'd
To that bad eminence; and from defpair Thus high uplifted beyond hope, afpires Beyond thus high, infatiate to purfue
Vain war with Heav'n, and by fuccefs untaught His proud imaginations thus difplay'd.
Pow'rs and Dominions, Deities of Heaven, For fince no deep within her gulf can hold Immortal vigor, though opprefs'd and fall'n, I give not Heav'n for left. From this descent Celestial virtues rifing, will appear
More glorious and more dread than from no fall, And truft themfelves to fear no fecond fate. Me though just right, and the fix'd laws of Heaven Did firft create your leader, next free choice, With what befides, in counsel or in fight, Hath been achiev'd of merit, yet this lofs Thus far at leaft recover'd, hath much more Eftablish'd in a fafe unenvied throne,
Yielded with full confent. The happier ftate In Heav'n, which follows dignity, might draw Envy from each inferior; but who here Will envy whom the highest place exposes Foremost to stand against the Thund'rer's aim Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share Of endless pain? where there is then no good For which to ftrive, no ftrife can grow up there From faction; for none fure will clame in Hell Precedence, none, whofe portion is so small Of present pain, that with ambitious mind Will covet more. With this advantage then To union, and firm faith, and firm accord, More than can be in Heav'n, we now return To clame our juft inheritance of old, Surer to profper than prosperity
Could have affur'd us; and by what best way, Whether of open war or covert guile, We now debate; who can advise, may speak.
He ceas'd, and next him Moloch, scepter'd king, Stood up, the strongest and the fierceft Spirit That fought in Heav'n, now fiercer by defpair: 45 His truft was with th' Eternal to be deem'd Equal in ftrength, and rather than be less Car'd not to be at all; with that care loft Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worfe He reck'd not, and these words thereafter spake. 50 My fentence is for open war: of wiles,
More unexpert, I boast not: them let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now.
For while they fit contriving, fhall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The fignal to ascend, fit lingʼring here Heav'n's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, The prison of his tyranny who reigns
By our delay? no, let us rather choose, Arm'd with Hell flames and fury, all at once
O'er Heav'n's high tow'rs to force refistless way, Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the torturer; when to meet the noise
Of his almighty engin he shall hear
Infernal thunder, and for lightning fee
Black fire and horror fhot with equal rage Among his Angels, and his throne itself
Mix'd with Tartarean fulphur, and strange fire, His own invented torments. But perhaps
The seems difficult and steep to scale With upright wing against a higher foe, Let fuch bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumm not still, That in our proper motion we ascend Up to our native feat: defcent and fall' To us is adverfe. Who but felt of late, When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear Infulting, and pursued us through the deep, With what compulfion and laborious flight We funk thus low? Th' afcent is easy then; Th' event is fear'd; fhould we again provoke Our stronger, fome worfe way his wrath may find
To our deftruction; if there be in Hell
Fear to be worse destroy'd: what can be worse
Than to dwell here, driv'n out from blifs, condemn'd
In this abhorred deep to atter woe;
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Muft exercise us without hope of end
What fear we then? what doubt we to incenfe
His utmost ire? which to the highth enrag'd, Will either quite confume us, and reduce To nothing this effential, happier far Than miferable to have eternal being: Or if our fubftance be indeed divine, And cannot ceafe to be, we are at worst On this fide nothing; and by proof we feel
Our pow'r fufficient to disturb his Heaven, And with perpetual inroads to alarm, Though inacceffible, his fatal throne: Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.
He ended frowning, and his look denounc'd
Defp'rate revenge, and battel dangerous To lefs than Gods. On th' other fide up rofe Belial, in act more graceful and humane; A fairer perfon loft not Heav'n; he seem'd For dignity compos'd and high exploit: But all was falfe and hollow; though his tongue Dropt Manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dafh Matureft counfels: for his thoughts were low; To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds Timorous and flothful: yet he pleas'd the ear, And with perfuafive accent thus began.
I should be much for open war, O Peers, As not behind in hate; if what was urg'd Main reafon to persuade immediate war, Did not diffuade me most, and seem to cast Ominous conjecture on the whole fuccess: When he who most excels in fact of arms, In what he counfels and in what excels Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair And utter dissolution, as the fcope
Of all his aim, after fome dire revenge.
First, what revenge? the tow'rs of Heaven are fill'd With armed watch, that render all accefs Impregnable; oft on the bord'ring deep Incamp their legions, or with óbfcure wing Scout far and wide into the realm of night, Scorning furprise. Or could we break our way By force, and at our heels all Hell fhould rise With blackest insurrection, to confound Heav'n's pureft light, yet our great enemy All incorruptible would on his throne Sit unpolluted, and th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would foon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair: we muft exafperate
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