To claim our just inheritance of old;
Surer to prosper, than prosperity
Could hav 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-piace
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 strango 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 exorcise us, without hope of end,
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge
Inexorable, 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 highth 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 up-rose
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
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
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

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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 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
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
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 seem'd
A refuge from those wounds or when we lay
Chain'd on the burning lake? that sure was worse.
What if the breath that kindled those grim fires,
Awaked, should blow them into seven-fold 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 open'd, and this firmament
Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire,
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall,
One day upon our heads; while we perhaps,

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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 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 conceal'd, alike
My voice dissuades; for what can force or guile
With him, or who deceive his mind, whose eye

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Views all things at one view? He from Heaven's highth, 190
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 expell'd, to suffer here

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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 we can sustain and bear,
Our supreme foe, in time, may much remit
His anger; and perhaps, thus far removed,
Not mind us, not offending, satisfied
With what is punish'd: whence, these raging fires
Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames.
Our purer essence then will overcome

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Their noxious vapour; or inured, not feel;

Or changed 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;
Besides what hope the never-ending flight

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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."

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Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's garb
Counsell'd ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth,
Not peace and after him thus Mammon spake.
Either, to disenthrone the King of Heaven
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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The latter for what place can be for us,

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Within Heaven's bound, unless Heaven's Lord Supreme

We overpower? Suppose he should relent,

And publish grace to all, on promise made

Of new subjection; with what eyes could we
Stand in his presence, humble, and receive
Strict laws imposed to celebrate his throne,
With warbled hymns, and to his Godhead sing
Forced Halleluiahs; while he lordly sits
Our envied Sovereign, and his altar breathes
Ambrosial odors, and ambrosial flowers,
Our servile offerings? This must be our task
In Heaven, this our delight: how wearisome
Eternity so spent, in worship paid

To whom we hate! Let us not then pursue
By force impossible, by leave obtain'd
Unacceptable, though in Heaven, our state
Of splendid vassalage; but rather seek
Our own good from ourselves, and from our own
Live to ourselves, though in this vast recess,
Free, and to none accountable, preferring
Hard liberty, before the easy yoke

Of servile pomp. Our greatness will appear
Then most conspicuous when, great things of small,
Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse,
We can create; and in what place so e'er
Thrive under evil, and work ease out of pain,
Through labor and endurance. This deep world
Of darkness do we dread? How oft, amidst
Thick clouds and dark, doth Heaven's all-ruling Sire
Choose to reside, his glory unobscured,
And with the majesty of darkness round
Covers his throne; from whence deep thunders roar,
Mustering their rage, and Heaven resembles Hell?
As he our darkness, cannot we his light
Imitate when we please? This desert soil
Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and gold;
Nor want we skill or art, from whence to raise

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