Vain war with Heaven; and, by success, untaught, His proud imaginations thus display'd.
Powers and Dominions, Deities of Heaven! For since no deep within her gulf can hold Immortal vigour, though oppress'd and fallen, I give not Heaven for lost. From this descent Celestial virtues rising will appear
More glorious and more dread than from no fall, And trust themselves to fear no second fate.
Me though just right, and the fix'd laws of Heaven, Did first create your Leader; next, free choice, With what besides, in counsel or in fight, Hath been achieved of merit; yet this loss, Thus far at least recover'd, hath much more Establish'd in a safe unenvied throne,
Yielded with full consent. The happier state In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw Envy from each inferior; but who here Will envy whom the highest place exposes Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim, Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share Of endless pain? Where there is then no good For which to strive, no strife can grow up there From faction; for none sure will claim in Hell Precedence; none, whose 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 Heaven, we now return To claim our just inheritance of old,
Surer to prosper than prosperity
Could have assured us; and, by what best way, Whether of open war, or covert guile,
We now debate: Who can advise, may speak. He ceased; and next him Moloch, sceptred king, Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest Spirit That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair: His trust was with the Eternal to be deem'd Equal in strength; and rather than be less Cared not to be at all; with that care lost Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse, He reck'd not; and these words thereafter spake. My sentence 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 sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to ascend, sit lingering here Heaven'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 Heaven's high towers to force resistless way, Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the Torturer; when to meet the noise Of his almighty engine he shall hear Infernal thunder; and, for lightning, see Black fire and horror shot with equal rage Among his Angels; and his throne itself
Mix'd with Tartarean sulphur, and strange fire, His own invented torments. But perhaps The way seems difficult and steep to scale With upright wing against a higher foe. Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, That in our proper motion we ascend Up to our native seat: Descent and fall To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, When the fierce Foe hung on our broken rear Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, With what compulsion and laborious flight We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then; The event is fear'd; should we again provoke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find To our destruction; if there be in Hell
Fear to be worse destroy'd: What can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemn'd In this abhorred deep to utter woe;
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Must exercise us without hope of end,
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge
Inexorably, and the torturing hour,
Calls us to penance? More destroy'd than thus, We should be quite abolish'd, 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 the other side uprose Belial, in act more graceful and humane: A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seem'd For dignity composed, and high exploit: But all was false and hollow; though his tongue Dropp'd 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 fill'd 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 the etherial 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
The 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, swallow'd 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
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