Illumin, what is low raise and support; That to the height of this great argument And justify the ways of God to Men. Say first, for Heav'n hides nothing from thy view, Nor the deep tract of Hell, say first what cause Mov'd our grand parents, in that happy state, Favor'd of Heav'n fo highly, to fall off From their Creator, and transgress his will For one restraint, lords of the world befides? Who first feduc'd them to that foul revolt? Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile, Stirr'd up with envy and revenge, deceiv'd The mother of mankind, what time his pride Had caft him out from Heav'n, with all his hoft Of rebel Angels, by whofe aid aspiring To fet himself in glory' above his peers, He trusted to have equal'd the most High, If he oppos'd; and with ambitious aim Against the throne and monarchy of God Rais'd impious war in Heav'n and battel proud With vain attempt. Him the almighty Power Hurl'd headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition, there to dwell In adamantin chains and penal fire, Who durft defy th' Omnipotent to arms. Nine times the space that measures day and night To mortal men, he with his horrid crew Lay vanquish'd, rolling in the fiery gulf, Confounded Confounded though immortal: But his doom Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes, A dungeon horrible on all fides round As one great furnace flam'd, yet from those flames Serv'd only to difcover fights of woe, Regions of forrow, doleful shades, where peace Dum vulfos montes ceu tela reciproca torquent, Excidit attonitis mens omnis, & impetus omnis, Cedite Romani Scriptores, cedite Graii, W SAMUEL BARROW, M. D. ON PARADISE LOST. WHEN I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold, Meffiah crown'd, God's reconcil'd decree, Yet Yet as I read, ftill growing lefs fevere, Through that wide field how he his way fhould find, Or if a work fo infinite he spann'd, Jealous I was that fome lefs skilful hand (Such as difquiet always what is well, And by ill imitating would excel)' ་་ Might hence prefume the whole creation's day Thou haft not mifs'd one thought that could be fit, So that no room is here for writers left, But to detect their ignorance or theft. That majesty which through thy work doth reign,* Draws the devout, deterring the profane. And things divine thou treat'st of in such state Where Where couldst thou words of fuch a compass.find? Whence furnish fuch a vast expence of mind? Just Heaven thee, like Tirefias, to requite Rewards with prophecy thy lofs of fight. Well might'st thou.fcorn.thy.readers to allure With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; While the town-bays writes all the while and spells, And like a pack-horse tires without his bells: Their fancies like our bushy-points appear, The poets tag them, we for fashion wear. I too, transported by the mode, offend, And while I meant to praise thee must commend. Thy verfe created like thy theme sublime, Number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme. ANDREW MARVELL. To Mr. JOHN MILTON, On his Poem entitled PARADISE LOST. Thou! the wonder of the present age, An age immerft in luxury and vice; A race of trifiers; who can relish naught But the gay iffue of an idle brain: How couldst thou hope to please this tinsel race? The labyrinth perplex'd of Heaven's decrees; 3 F. G. 1680. THE |