Of Man, but fled him, or with count'nance grim Glar'd on him paffing. These were from without The growing miseries which Adam faw Already' in part, though hid in gloomiest shade, To forrow' abandon'd, but worse felt within, And in a troubled fea of paffion toft, Thus to disburden fought with fad complaint. O miferable of happy! is this the end Of this new glorious world, and me fo late The glory of that glory, who now become Accurs'd of bleffed, hide me from the face
Of God, whom to behold was then my highth Of happiness! yet well, if here would end The mifery; I deferv'd it, and would bear My own defervings; but this will not ferve; All that I eat or drink, or fhall beget,
Is propagated curfe. O voice once heard Delightfully, Increafe and multiply,
Now death to hear! for what can I increase
Or multiply, but curfes on my head?
Who of all ages to fucceed, but feeling
The evil on him brought by me, will curfe
My head? Ill fare our ancestor impure,
For this we may thank Adam; but his thanks
Shall be the execration; fo befides
Mine own that bide upon me, all from me
Shall with a fierce reflux on me redound,
On me as on their natural center light Heavy, though in their place. O fleeting joys Of Paradise, dear bought with lafting woes!
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mold me Man, did I folicit thee
From darkness to promote me, or here place In this delicious garden? as my will
Concur'd not to my be'ing, it were but right And equal to reduce me to my duft,
Defirous to refign and render back
All I receiv'd, unable to perform
Thy terms too hard, by which I was to hold The good I fought not. To the lofs of that, Sufficient penalty, why haft thou added The fenfe of endlefs woes? inexplicable Thy juftice feems; yet to fay truth, too late I thus conteft; then fhould have been refus'd Those terms whatever, when they were propos'd: Thou didst accept them: wilt thou' enjoy the good, Then cavil the conditions? and though God Made thee without thy leave, what if thy fon Prove disobedient, and réprov'd, retort, Wherefore didft thou beget me? I fought it not : Wouldst thou admit for his contempt of thee That proud excufe? yet him not thy election,
But natural neceffity begot.
God made thee' of choice his own, and of his own
To ferve him; thy reward was of his grace, Thy punishment then justly' is at his will. Be' it fo, for I fubmit; his doom is fair, That duft I am, and shall to dust return : O welcome hour whenever! why delays His hand to execute what his decree
Fix'd on this day? why do I overlive,
Why am I mock'd with death, and lengthen'd out To deathless pain? how gladly would I meet Mortality my fentence, and be earth Infenfible, how glad would lay me down As in my mother's lap? there I should rest And fleep fecure; his dreadful voice no more Would thunder in my ears, no fear of worse To me and to my offspring would torment me With cruel expectation. Yet one doubt Purfues me ftill, left all I cannot die, Left that pure breath of life, the spirit of Man Which God infpir'd, cannot together perish With this corporeal clod; then in the grave, Or in fome other difmal place, who knows But I fhall die a living death? O thought Horrid, if true! yet why? it was but breath Of life that finn'd; what dies but what had life And fin the body properly hath neither.
All of me then fhall die: let this appeafe
The doubt, fince human reach no further knows. For though the Lord of all be infinite,
Is his wrath alfo ? be it, Man is not fo,
But mortal doom'd. How can he exercise
Wrath without end on Man whom death must end?
Can he make deathlefs death? that were to make Strange contradiction, which to God himself
Impoffible is held, as argument
Of weakness, not of pow'r. Will he draw out, For anger's fake, finite to infinite
In punish'd Man, to fatisfy his rigor
Satisfy'd never? that were to extend His fentence beyond dust and nature's law, By which all caufes elfe according ftill To the reception of their matter act,
Not to th' extent of their own sphere. But fay That death be not one ftroke, as I fuppos'd, Bereaving fenfe, but endless mifery
From this day onward, which I feel begun Both in me, and without me, and fo last To perpetuity; Ay me, that fear
Comes thund'ring back with dreadful revolution On my defenfeless head; both Death and I Are found eternal, and incorporate both, Nor I on my part single, in me all Pofterity stands curs'd: Fair patrimony 'That I must leave ye, Sons; O were I able To wafte it all myself, and leave ye none ! So difinherited how would you blefs Me now your curfe! Ah, why should all mankind For one man's fault thus guiltless be condemn'd, If guiltless? But from me what can proceed, But all corrupt, both mind and will deprav'd Not to do only, but to will the fame
With me? how can they then acquitted stand In fight of God? Him after all disputes Forc'd I abfolve: all my evafions vain,
And reafonings, though through mazes, lead me ftill But to my own conviction: first and last On me, me only, as the fource and spring
Of all corruption, all the blame lights due ;
So might the wrath. Fond with! couldst thou support That burden heavier than the earth to bear, 835 Than all the world much heavier, though divided With that bad Woman? Thus what thou defir'st And what thou fear'st, alike destroys all hope Of refuge, and concludes thee miferable
Beyond all paft example and futúre,
To Satan only like both crime and doom.
O Conscience, into what abyss of fears
And horrors hast thou driv'n me; out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plung'd! Thus Adam to himself lamented loud Through the ftill night, not now, as ere Man fell, Wholesome and cool, and mild, but with black air Accompanied, with damps and dreadful gloom, Which to his evil confcience represented
All things with double terror: on the ground Outftretch'd he lay, on the cold ground, and oft Curs'd his creation, death as oft accus'd Of tardy execution, fince denounc'd
The day of his offenfe. Why comes not death, Said he, with one thrice acceptable stroke To end me? fhall truth fail to keep her word, Justice divine not hasten to be just ?
But death comes not at call, juftice divine Mends not her flowest pace for prayers or cries.
O woods, O fountains, hillocs, dales and bowers, 860 With other echo late I taught your fhades To answer, and resound far other song.
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