Infulting, and pursu’d us through the Deep,
With what compulfion, and laborious flight,
We funk thus low? Th afcent is eafie then;
Th' event is fear'd; should we again provoke
Our stronger, fome worfe way His wrath may find
To our deftruction: (if there be in hel

Fear to be worse destroy'd) What can be worfe Than to dwell here, driv'n out from blifs, condemn'd

In this abhorred deep to utter woe!
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Muft exercife us, without hope of end,
The vaffals of His anger, when the fcourge
Inexorably, and the torturing hour,

Calls us to penarce? more deftroy'd than thus
We should be quite abolish'd, and expire.
What fear we then? what doubt we to incenfe
His utmost ire? which to the height 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 power fufficient to disturb His heav'n,
And with perpetual inrodes to alarm,
Though inacceffible, His fatal throne:
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.
He ended frowning, and his look denounc'd
Desperate revenge, and battel dangerous

To lefs than Gods. On th' other fide uprofe
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
Drop'd Manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reafon, to perplex and dash

Matureft counfels; for his thonghts were low:
To vice induftrious, but to nobler deeds
Timorous, and flothful: yet he pleas'd the ear,
And wit 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 perfuade immediate war,
Did not diffuade me moft; and feem to caft
Ominous conjecture on the whole fuccefs;
When he who moft excels in fact of arms
In what he counfels, and in what excels,
Miftraftful, grounds his courage on despair,
And utter diffolution, as the scope

Of all his aim, after fome dire revenge.
First, what revenge? The towr's of heav'n are fill'd
With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable: oft on the bordering Deep
Encamp their legions; or with obfcure wing,
Scout far and wide into the realm of night,
Scorning furprize. Or could we break our way
By force, and at our heels all hell should rife
With blackeft infurrection, to confound

Heav'n's pureft light; yet our great enemy,

All incorruptible, would on His throne
Sit unpolluted; and th' ethereal mold
Incapable of ftain, would foon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope
Is flat defpair: we must exasperate

Th' 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 lofe,
Though full of pain, this intelle&ual Being ;
Those thoughts, that wander through eternity;
To perish rather, swallow'd up and loft

In the wide womb of uncreated night,

Devoid of fenfe and motion? And who knows,
(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, fo wife, let loofe at once His ire,
Belike through impotence, or unaware,
To give His enemies their wish, and end
Them in his anger, whom His anger faves
To punish endless? . Wherefore cease we then?
Say they who counsel war; We are decreed,
Referv'd, and deftin'd to eternal woe:
Whatever doing, what can we fuffer more;
What can we fuffer worse.... Is this then worst,
Thus fitting, thus confulting, thus in arms?
What! when we fled amain, pursu'd, and strook
With heav'n's affli&ing thunder, and befought
The Deep to shelter us? This hell then feem'd

....

A refuge from thefe wounds. Or, when we lay
Chain'd on the burning lake? That fure was worse.
What if the breath that kindled thofe grim fires,
Awak'd, should blow them into fevenfold 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 ftores were open'd, and this firmament
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire?
Impendent horrors threatning hideous fall
One day upon our heads: while we perhaps
Designing or exhorting glorious war,
Caught in a fiery tempeft shall be hurl'd
Each on his rook transfix'd, the fport and prey
Of racking whirlwinds or for ever funk
Under yon boiling ocean, wrap'd in chains;
There to converfe with everlasting groans,
Unrefpited, unpitied, unrepriev'd,
Ages of hopeless end? This would be worfe.
War therefore, open or conceal'd, alike
My voice diffuades: for what can force or guile
With Him, or who deceive his mind, whofe eye
Views all things at one view? He from heav'n's

height

All thefe our motions vain, fees and derides:
Not more almighty to refift our might,
Than wife to fruftrate all our plots and wiles,
Shall we then live thus vile, the race of heav'n
Thus trampled, thus expell'd, to fuffer here

Chains and thefe torments? Better thefe than worfe,

By my advice; fince fate inevitable
Subdues us, and omnipotent decree;
The victor's will. To fuffer, as to do,
Our strength is equal, nor the law unjust
That fo ordains: this was at first refolv'd
If we were wife, against so great'a foe
Contending, and fo doubtful what might fall.
I laugh, when those who at the spear are bold
And vent'rous, if that fail them, shrink, and fear
What yet they know muft follow, to indure
Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain,
The fentence of their conqu'ror: This is now
Our doom! which if we can sustain and bear,
Our fupreme foe, in time, may much remit
His anger and perhaps thus far remov'd,
Not mind us not offending, fatisfy'd

With what is punish'd: whence these raging fires
Will flacken, if his breath ftir not their flames.
Our purer effence then will overcome

Their noxious vapor; or enur'd, not feel;

Or chang'd 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 darkneft, light:
Befides what hope the never-ending flight
Of future days may bring, what chance, what change
Worth waiting, fince our prefent lot appears
For happy, though but ill; for ill, not worst;
If we procure not to our felves more woe.

Thus Belial with words cloath'd in reafon's garb

I