By our delay? No, let us rather chuse,
Arm'd with hell flames and fury, all at once
O'er heav'n's high tow'rs to force refiftless way,
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the Torturer; when to meet the noife
Of his almighty engine he shall hear
Infernal thunder; and, for lightning, fee
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
Among his angels; and his throne itself
Mix'd with Tartarean fulphur, and strange fire,
His own invented torments. But perhaps
The way feems difficult and steep to scale
With upright wing against a higher foe.
Let fuch bethink them, if the fleepy drench
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,
That in our proper motion we afcend
Up to our native feat: defcent and fall
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late,
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear
Insulting, and purfu'd us through the deep,
With what compulfion and laborious flight
We funk thus low? Th' afcent is easy then;
Th' event is fear'd; fhould 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 85
Than to dwell here, driv'n out from blifs, 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 fcourge
Inexorably, and the tort'ring hour
Calls us to penance? 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 consume us, and reduce
To nothing this essential; happier far,
Than miferable to have eternal being:,
Or if our fubstance be indeed divine,
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst
On this fide nothing; and by proof we feel
Our pow'r sufficient to disturb his heav'n,
And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne:
Which if not victory, is yet revenge.
He ended frowning, and his look denounc'd
Desp'rate revenge, and battle dangerous
To less than gods. On the other fide uprose
Belial, in act more graceful and humane;
A fairer person loft not heav'n; he seem'd.
For dignity compos'd, and high exploit:
But all was false and hollow; tho' his tongue
Dropt 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
Tim'rous and slothful; yet he pleas'd the ear,
And with perfuafive accent thus began.
I should be much for open war, O peers, As not behind in hate; if what was urg'd Main reason to perfuade immediate war, Did not diffuade me most, and seem to cast Ominous conjecture on the whole fuccess; 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 diffsolution, as the scope Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. First, what revenge? The tow'rs of heav'n are fill'd
With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable: oft on the bord'ring deep
Incamp their legions; or, with obfcure wing,
Scout far and wide into the realms 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
Heav'n's purest light; yet our great enemy,
All incorruptible, would on his throne
Sit upolluted; and th' ethereal mould,
Incapable of stain, would foon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repuls'd, 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, fwallow'd up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated night,
Devoid of fense 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 fure.
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,
Reserv'd, and destin'd to eternal woe;
Whatever doing, what can we fuffer more,
What can we suffer worse? Is this then worst,
Thus fitting, thus confulting, thus in arms?
What, when we fled amain, pursu'd, and struck 165
With Heav'n's afflicting thunder, and befought
The deep to shelter us? this hell then feem'd'
A refuge from those wounds: or when we lay
Chain'd on the burning lake? that fure was worse.
What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, 170
Awak'd, should blow them into fev'nfold 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 fpout her cataracts of fire,
Impendent horrors, threat'ning hideous fall
One day upon our heads; while we perhaps
Designing or exhorting glorious war,
Caught in a fiery tempest shall be hurl'd
Each on his rock transfix'd, the sport and prey
Of wracking whirlwinds; or forever funk
Under you boiling. ocean, wrapt in chains;.
There to converfe with everlasting groans,
Unrespited, umpitied, 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, whose eye
Views all things at one view? he from heav'n's height
All these our motions vain fees and derides;
Not more almighty to refist our might
Than wife to frustrate 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 these torments? Better these than worse,
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 resolv'd,
If we were wife, against so great a foe
Contending, and so doubtful what might fall.
I laugh, when those who at the spear are bold
And vent'rous, if that fail them, shrink and fear 205
What yet they know must follow, to endure
Exile, or ingnominy', or bonds, or pain,
The sentence of their Conqu'ror: this is now
Our doom; which if we can fustain 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 stir not their flames.
Our purer essence then will overcome
Their noxious vapour; or inur'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 darkness light; 220
Befides what hope the never-ending flight
Of future days may bring, what chance, what change
Worth waiting, since our present lot appears
For happy though but ill, for ill not worst,
If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
Thus Belial, with words cloth'd in reason's garb, Counsel'd ignoble eafe, and peaceful floth, Not peace: and after him thus Mammon spake. Either to difinthrone the King of Heav'n We war, if war be best, or to regain Our own right lost: him to unthrone we then May hope, when everlasting fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife: The former vain to hope, argues as vain.
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