Paradise Lost. Джон Мильтон

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       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 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 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 to none accountable, preferring

       Hard liberty before the easy yoke

       Of servile pomp. Our greatness will appear

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