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Of Man, but fled him, or with count'nance grim
Glar'd on him paffing. These were from without
The growing miseries which Adam faw
Already' in part, though hid in gloomiest shade,
To forrow' abandon'd, but worse felt within,
And in a troubled fea of paffion toft,
Thus to disburden fought with fad complaint.
O miferable of happy! is this the end
Of this new glorious world, and me fo late
The glory of that glory, who now become
Accurs'd of bleffed, hide me from the face

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Of God, whom to behold was then my highth
Of happiness! yet well, if here would end
The mifery; I deferv'd it, and would bear
My own defervings; but this will not ferve;
All that I eat or drink, or fhall beget,

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Is propagated curfe. O voice once heard
Delightfully, Increafe and multiply,

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Now death to hear! for what can I increase

Or multiply, but curfes on my head?

Who of all ages to fucceed, but feeling

The evil on him brought by me, will curfe

My head? Ill fare our ancestor impure,

735

For this we may thank Adam; but his thanks

Shall be the execration; fo befides

Mine own that bide upon me, all from me

Shall with a fierce reflux on me redound,

On me as on their natural center light
Heavy, though in their place. O fleeting joys
Of Paradise, dear bought with lafting woes!

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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mold me Man, did I folicit thee

From darkness to promote me, or here place
In this delicious garden? as my will

Concur'd not to my be'ing, it were but right
And equal to reduce me to my duft,

Defirous to refign and render back

All I receiv'd, unable to perform

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Thy terms too hard, by which I was to hold
The good I fought not. To the lofs of that,
Sufficient penalty, why haft thou added
The fenfe of endlefs woes? inexplicable
Thy juftice feems; yet to fay truth, too late
I thus conteft; then fhould have been refus'd
Those terms whatever, when they were propos'd:
Thou didst accept them: wilt thou' enjoy the good,
Then cavil the conditions? and though God
Made thee without thy leave, what if thy fon
Prove disobedient, and réprov'd, retort,
Wherefore didft thou beget me? I fought it not :
Wouldst thou admit for his contempt of thee
That proud excufe? yet him not thy election,

But natural neceffity begot.

God made thee' of choice his own, and of his own

To ferve him; thy reward was of his grace,
Thy punishment then justly' is at his will.
Be' it fo, for I fubmit; his doom is fair,
That duft I am, and shall to dust return :
O welcome hour whenever! why delays
His hand to execute what his decree

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Fix'd on this day? why do I overlive,

Why am I mock'd with death, and lengthen'd out
To deathless pain? how gladly would I meet
Mortality my fentence, and be earth
Infenfible, how glad would lay me down
As in my mother's lap? there I should rest
And fleep fecure; his dreadful voice no more
Would thunder in my ears, no fear of worse
To me and to my offspring would torment me
With cruel expectation. Yet one doubt
Purfues me ftill, left all I cannot die,
Left that pure breath of life, the spirit of Man
Which God infpir'd, cannot together perish
With this corporeal clod; then in the grave,
Or in fome other difmal place, who knows
But I fhall die a living death? O thought
Horrid, if true! yet why? it was but breath
Of life that finn'd; what dies but what had life
And fin the body properly hath neither.

All of me then fhall die: let this appeafe

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The doubt, fince human reach no further knows.
For though the Lord of all be infinite,

Is his wrath alfo ? be it, Man is not fo,

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But mortal doom'd. How can he exercise

Wrath without end on Man whom death must end?

Can he make deathlefs death? that were to make
Strange contradiction, which to God himself

Impoffible is held, as argument

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Of weakness, not of pow'r. Will he draw out,
For anger's fake, finite to infinite

In punish'd Man, to fatisfy his rigor

Satisfy'd never? that were to extend
His fentence beyond dust and nature's law,
By which all caufes elfe according ftill
To the reception of their matter act,

Not to th' extent of their own sphere. But fay
That death be not one ftroke, as I fuppos'd,
Bereaving fenfe, but endless mifery

From this day onward, which I feel begun
Both in me, and without me, and fo last
To perpetuity; Ay me, that fear

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Comes thund'ring back with dreadful revolution
On
my defenfeless head; both Death and I
Are found eternal, and incorporate both,
Nor I on my part single, in me all
Pofterity stands curs'd: Fair patrimony
'That I must leave ye, Sons; O were I able
To wafte it all myself, and leave ye none !
So difinherited how would you blefs
Me now your curfe! Ah, why should all mankind
For one man's fault thus guiltless be condemn'd,
If guiltless? But from me what can proceed,
But all corrupt, both mind and will deprav'd
Not to do only, but to will the fame

With me? how can they then acquitted stand
In fight of God? Him after all disputes
Forc'd I abfolve: all my evafions vain,

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And reafonings, though through mazes, lead me ftill
But to my own conviction: first and last
On me, me only, as the fource and spring

Of

Of all corruption, all the blame lights due ;

So might the wrath. Fond with! couldst thou support
That burden heavier than the earth to bear, 835
Than all the world much heavier, though divided
With that bad Woman? Thus what thou defir'st
And what thou fear'st, alike destroys all hope
Of refuge, and concludes thee miferable

Beyond all paft example and futúre,

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To Satan only like both crime and doom.

O Conscience, into what abyss of fears

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And horrors hast thou driv'n me; out of which
I find no way, from deep to deeper plung'd!
Thus Adam to himself lamented loud
Through the ftill night, not now, as ere Man fell,
Wholesome and cool, and mild, but with black air
Accompanied, with damps and dreadful gloom,
Which to his evil confcience represented

All things with double terror: on the ground
Outftretch'd he lay, on the cold ground, and oft
Curs'd his creation, death as oft accus'd
Of tardy execution, fince denounc'd

The day of his offenfe. Why comes not death,
Said he, with one thrice acceptable stroke
To end me? fhall truth fail to keep her word,
Justice divine not hasten to be just ?

But death comes not at call, juftice divine
Mends not her flowest pace for prayers or cries.

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O woods, O fountains, hillocs, dales and bowers, 860
With other echo late I taught your fhades
To answer, and resound far other song.

Whom

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