Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Джон Мильтон

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      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 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, 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.

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