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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 brightness 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 War

      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 an this mighty Host

      In horrible destruction laid thus low,

      As far as Gods and Heav’nly Essences

      Can perish: for the mind and spirit remains

      Invincible, and vigour soon returns,

      Though all our Glory extinct, and happy state

      Here swallow’d up in endless misery.

      But what if he our Conquerour, (whom I now

      Of force believe Almighty, since no less

      Then such could hav orepow’rd such force as ours)

      Have left us this our spirit and strength intire

      Strongly to suffer and support our pains,

      That we may so suffice his vengeful ire,

      Or do him mightier service as his thralls

      By right of Warr, what e’re his business be

      Here in the heart of Hell to work in Fire,

      Or do his Errands in the gloomy Deep;

      What can it then avail though yet we feel

      Strength undiminisht, or eternal being

      To undergo eternal punishment?

      Whereto with speedy words th’ Arch-fiend reply’d.

      Fall’n Cherube, to be weak is miserable

      Doing or Suffering: but of this be sure,

      To do ought good never will be our task,

      But ever to do ill our sole delight,

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