Paradise Lost + Paradise Regained (2 Unabridged Classics + Original Illustrations by Gustave Doré). Джон Мильтон

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      The irksome hours, till his great Chief return.

      Part on the Plain, or in the Air sublime

      Upon the wing, or in swift race contend,

      As at th’ Olympian Games or Pythian fields;

      Part curb thir fierie Steeds, or shun the Goal

      With rapid wheels, or fronted Brigads form.

      As when to warn proud Cities warr appears

      Wag’d in the troubl’d Skie, and Armies rush

      To Battel in the Clouds, before each Van

      Pric forth the Aerie Knights, and couch thir spears

      Till thickest Legions close; with feats of Arms

      From either end of Heav’n the welkin burns.

      Others with vast Typhoean rage more fell

      Rend up both Rocks and Hills, and ride the Air

      In whirlwind; Hell scarce holds the wilde uproar.

      As when Alcides from Oealia Crown’d

      With conquest, felt th’ envenom’d robe, and tore

      Through pain up by the roots Thessalian Pines,

      And Lichas from the top of Oeta threw

      Into th’ Euboic Sea. Others more milde,

      Retreated in a silent valley, sing

      With notes Angelical to many a Harp

      Thir own Heroic deeds and hapless fall

      By doom of Battel; and complain that Fate

      Free Vertue should enthrall to Force or Chance.

      Thir song was partial, but the harmony

      (What could it less when Spirits immortal sing?)

      Suspended Hell, and took with ravishment

      The thronging audience. In discourse more sweet

      (For Eloquence the Soul, Song charms the Sense,)

      Others apart sat on a Hill retir’d,

      In thoughts more elevate, and reason’d high

      Of Providence, Foreknowledge, Will, and Fate,

      Fixt Fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute,

      And found no end, in wandring mazes lost.

      Of good and evil much they argu’d then,

      Of happiness and final misery,

      Passion and Apathie, and glory and shame,

      Vain wisdom all, and false Philosophie:

      Yet with a pleasing sorcerie could charm

      Pain for a while or anguish, and excite

      Fallacious hope, or arm th’ obdured brest

      With stubborn patience as with triple steel.

      Another part in Squadrons and gross Bands

      On bold adventure to discover wide

      That dismal World, if any Clime perhaps

      Might yeild them easier habitation, bend

      Four ways thir flying March, along the Banks

      Of four infernal Rivers that disgorge

      Into the burning Lake thir baleful streams;

      Abhorred Styx the flood of deadly hate,

      Sad Acheron of Sorrow, black and deep;

      Cocytus, nam’d of lamentation loud

      Heard on the ruful stream; fierce Phlegeton

      Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.

      Farr off from these a slow and silent stream,

      Lethe the River of Oblivion roules

      Her watrie Labyrinth, whereof who drinks,

      Forthwith his former state and being forgets,

      Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.

      Beyond this flood a frozen Continent

      Lies dark and wilde, beat with perpetual storms

      Of Whirlwind and dire Hail, which on firm land

      Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin seems

      Of ancient pile; all else deep snow and ice,

      A gulf profound as that Serbonian Bog

      Betwixt Damiata and mount Casius old,

      Where Armies whole have sunk: the parching Air

      Burns frore, and cold performs th’ effect of Fire.

      Thither by harpy-footed Furies hail’d,

      At certain revolutions all the damn’d

      Are brought: and feel by turns the bitter change

      Of fierce extreams, extreams by change more fierce,

      From Beds of raging Fire to starve in Ice

      Thir soft Ethereal warmth, and there to pine

      Immovable, infixt, and frozen round,

      Periods of time, thence hurried back to fire.

      They ferry over this Lethean Sound

      Both to and fro, thir sorrow to augment,

      And wish and struggle, as they pass, to reach

      The tempting stream, with one small drop to loose

      In sweet forgetfulness all pain and woe,

      All in one moment, and so neer the brink;

      But fate withstands, and to oppose th’ attempt

      Medusa with Gorgonian terror guards

      The Ford, and of it self the water flies

      All taste of living wight, as once it fled

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