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We should be quite abolished, 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 th' other side up rose

       Belial, in act more graceful and humane.

       A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seemed

       For dignity composed, and high exploit.

       But all was false and hollow; though his tongue

       Dropped 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 filled

       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 th' 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: 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 lose,

       Though full of pain, this intellectual being,

       Those thoughts that wander through eternity,

       To perish rather, swallowed up and lost

       In the wide womb of uncreated Night,

       Devoid of sense 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, 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 seemed

       A refuge from those wounds. Or when we lay

       Chained 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 opened, 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 hurled,

       Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey

       Or 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 concealed, 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 expelled, 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

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