Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Джон Мильтон

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 th’ Eternal to be deemed

      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 recked 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,

      Armed 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

      Mixed 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? Th’ ascent is easy, then;

      Th’ event is feared! 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 destroyed! What can be worse

      Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned

      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 destroyed than thus,

      We should be quite abolished, 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 th’ other side up rose

      Belial, in act more graceful and humane.

      A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seemed

      For dignity composed, and high exploit.

      But all was false and hollow; though his tongue

      Dropped 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 filled

      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 th’ 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

      Th’ Almighty Victor to spend all his rage;

      And