Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Джон Мильтон

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 igominy, 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 punished; whence these raging fires

      Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames.

      Our purer essence then will overcome

      Their noxious vapour; or, inured, not feel;

      Or, changed at length, and to the place conformed

      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

      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 clothed in reason’s garb,

      Counselled 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

      The latter; for what place can be for us

      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 hallelujahs, while he lordly sits

      Our envied sovereign, and his altar breathes

      Ambrosial odours 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 obtained

      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