Good comrades, Julius, have we been,

And four-and-thirty harvests seen:

We have had sweetness mixed with sour;

Yet oftener came the happy hour.

If for each day a pebble stood,

And either black or white were hued,

Then, ranged in masses separate,

The brighter ones would dominate.

If thou wouldst shun some heartaches sore,

And ward off gloom that gnaws thy core,

Grapple none closely to thy heart:

If less thy joy, then less thy smart.

GIFTS TO FRIENDS ARE NOT LOST

A cunning thief may rob your money-chest,

And cruel fire lay low an ancient home;

Debtors may keep both loan and interest;

Good seed may fruitless rot in barren loam.

A guileful mistress may your agent cheat,

And waves engulf your laden argosies;

But boons to friends can fortune's slings defeat:

The wealth you give away will never cease.

ON MAKING THE BEST OF LIFE

Julius, in friendship's scroll surpassed by none,

If life-long faith and ancient ties may count,

Nigh sixty consulates by thee have gone:

The days thou hast to live make small amount.

Defer not joys them mayst not win from fate

Judge only what is past to be thine own.

Cares with a linkéd chain of sorrows wait.

Mirth tarries not; but soon on wing is flown.

With both hands hold it--clasped in full embrace,

Still from thy breast it oft will glide away!

To say, "I mean to live," is folly's place:

To-morrow's life comes late; live, then, to-day.

A DAY IN ROME

(First Century A.D.)

The first two hours Rome spends on morning calls,

And with the third the busy lawyer bawls.

Into the fifth the town plies varied tasks;

The sixth, siesta; next hour closing asks.

The eighth sees bath and oil and exercise;

The ninth brings guest on dining-couch who lies.

The tenth is claimed for Martial's poetry,

When you, my friend, contrive high luxury

To please great Cæsar, and fine nectar warms

The mighty hand that knows a wine-cup's charms.

Eve is the time for jest: with step so bold

My muse dare not at morn great Jove behold.

BOREDOM, VERSUS ENJOYMENT

If you and I, dear Martial, might

Enjoy our days in Care's despite,

And could control each leisure hour,

Both free to cull life's real flower,

Then should we never know the halls

Of patrons or law's wearying calls,

Or troublous court or family pride;

But we should chat or read or ride,

Play games or stroll in porch or shade,

Visit the hot baths or "The Maid."

Such haunts should know us constantly,

Such should engage our energy.

Now neither lives his life, but he

Marks precious days that pass and flee.

These days are lost, but their amount

Is surely set to our account.

Knowledge the clue to life can give;

Then wherefore hesitate to live?

THE HAPPY LIFE

The things that make a life of ease,

Dear Martial, are such things as these:

Wealth furnished not by work but birth,

A grateful farm, a blazing hearth,

No lawsuit, seldom formal dress;

But leisure, stalwart healthiness,

A tactful candour, equal friends,

Glad guests at board which naught pretends,

No drunken nights, but sorrow free,

A bed of joy yet chastity;

Sleep that makes darkness fly apace,

So well content with destined place,

Unenvious so as not to fear

Your final day, nor wish it near.

AT THE SEASIDE

Sweet strand of genial Formiæ,

Apollinaris loves to flee

From troublous thought in serious Rome,

And finds thee better than a home.

Here Thetis' face is ruffled by

A gentle wind; the waters lie

Not in dead calm, but o'er the main

A peaceful liveliness doth reign,

Bearing gay yachts before a breeze

Cool as the air that floats with ease

From purple fan of damozel

Who would the summer heat dispel.

The angler need not far away

Seek in deep water for his prey--

Your line from bed or sofa throw,

And watch the captured fish below!

How seldom, Rome, dost thou permit

Us by such joys to benefit?

How many days can one long year

Credit with wealth of Formian cheer?

We, round whom city worries swarm,

Envy our lacqueys on a farm.

Luck to you, happy slaves, affords

The joys designed to please your lords!

THE POET'S FINAL RETREAT IN SPAIN

Mayhap, my Juvenal, your feet

Stray down some noisy Roman street,

While after many years of Rome

I have regained my Spanish home.

Bilbilis, rich in steel and gold,

Makes me a rustic as of old.

With easy-going toil at will

Estates of uncouth name I till.

Outrageous lengths of sleep I take,

And oft refuse at nine to wake.

I pay myself nor more nor less

For thirty years of wakefulness!

No fine clothes here--but battered dress,

The first that comes, snatched from a press!

I rise to find a hearth ablaze

With oak the nearest wood purveys.

This is a life of jollity:

So shall I die contentedly.

PHILIP MASSINGER[Z]

A New Way to Pay Old Debts

_Persons in the Play_

LOVELL, _an English lord_

SIR GILES OVERREACH, _a cruel extortioner_

WELLBORN, _a prodigal, nephew to Sir Giles_

ALLWORTH, _a young gentleman, page to_ Lord Lovell,

_stepson to_ Lady Allworth

MARRALL, _a creature of_ Sir Giles Overreach

WILLDO, _a parson_

LADY ALLWORTH, _a rich widow_

MARGARET, _Sir Giles's daughter_

_The scene is laid in an English county_

ACT I

SCENE I.--_A room in_ OVERREACH'S _house. Enter_ OVERREACH _and_

MARRALL.

OVERREACH: This varlet, Wellborn, lives too long to upbraid me

With my close cheat put on him. Will not cold

Nor hunger kill him?

MARRALL: I've used all means; and the last night I caused

His host, the tapster, to turn him out of doors;

And since I've charged all of your friends and tenants

To refuse him even a crust of mouldy bread.

OVERREACH: Persuade him that 'tis better steal than beg:

Then, if I prove he have but robbed a hen roost,

Not all the world shall save him from the gallows.

MARRALL: I'll do my best, sir.

OVERREACH: I'm now on my main work, with the Lord Lovell;

The gallant-minded, popular Lord Lovell.

He's come into the country; and my aims

Are to invite him to my house.

MARRALL: I see.

This points at my young mistress.

OVERREACH: She must part with

That humble title, and write honourable--

Yes, Marrall, my right honourable daughter,

If all I have, or e'er shall get, will do it.

[_Exit_ OVERREACH. _Enter_ WELLBORN.

MARRALL: Before, like you, I had outlived my fortunes,

A withe had served my turn to hang myself.

Is there no purse to be cut? House to be broken?

Or market-woman with eggs that you may murder,

And so dispatch the business?

WELLBORN: Here's variety,

I must confess; but I'll accept of none

Of all your gentle offers, I assure you.

Despite the rhetoric that the fiend has taught you,

I am as far as thou art from despair.

Nay, I have confidence, which is more than hope,

To live, and suddenly, better than ever.

Come, dine with me, and with a gallant lady.

MARRALL: With the lady of the lake or queen of fairies?

For I know it must be an enchanted dinner.

WELLBORN: With the Lady Allworth, knave.

MARRALL: Nay, now there's hope

Thy brain is cracked.

WELLBORN: Mark thee with what respect

I am entertained.

MARRALL: With choice, no doubt, of dog-whips!

WELLBORN: 'Tis not far off; go with me; trust thine

eyes.

MARRALL: I will endure thy company.

WELLBORN: Come along, then.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_The country_. MARRALL _assures_ OVERREACH _that the plot

on_ WELLBORN _succeeds. The rich_ LADY ALLWORTH _has

feasted him and is fallen in love with him; he lives to

be a greater prey than ever to_ OVERREACH. _Angered at

the information_, OVERREACH, _who has himself attempted

in vain to see her, knocks his creature down, mollifying

him afterwards with gold_.

ACT II

SCENE I.--_A chamber in_ LADY ALLWORTH'S _house_. LOVELL _and_

ALLWORTH _discovered. Having heard of the mutual attachment

of_ MARGARET _and_ ALLWORTH, LORD LOVELL _has assured the

latter that he will help bring it to a successful issue,

and that neither the beauty nor the wealth of_ SIR GILES'S

_daughter shall tempt him to betray_ ALLWORTH'S _confidence.

Enter_ MARRALL, _and with him_ SIR GILES, _who from what

he has seen of their behaviour at a dinner given by him in_

LORD LOVELL'S _honour believes that_ LOVELL _wishes to marry_

MARGARET _and that_ LADY ALLWORTH _is enamoured of_ WELLBORN.

_To further this latter match and to prosecute new designs

against_ WELLBORN _he has lent him a thousand pounds_.

OVERREACH: A good day to my lord.

LOVELL: You are an early riser, Sir Giles.

OVERREACH: And reason, to attend your lordship.

Go to my nephew, Marrall.

See all his debts discharged, and help his worship

To fit on his rich suit.

[_Exit_ MARRALL

LOVELL: I have writ this morning

A few lines to my mistress, your fair daughter.

OVERREACH: 'Twill fire her, for she's wholly yours already.

Sweet Master Allworth, take my ring; 'twill carry

To her presence, I dare warrant you; and there plead

For my good lord, if you shall find occasion.

That done, pray ride to Nottingham; get a licence

Still by this token. I'll have it dispatched,

And suddenly, my lord, that I may say

My honourable, nay, right honourable daughter.

LOVELL: Haste your return.

ALLWORTH: I will not fail, my lord.

[_Exit._

OVERREACH: I came not to make offer with my daughter

A certain portion; that were poor and trivial:

In one word, I pronounce all that is mine,

In lands, or leases, ready coin, or goods,

With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have

One motive to induce you to believe

I live too long, since every year I'll add

Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too.

LOVELL: You are a right kind father.

OVERREACH: You'll have reason

To think me such. How do you like this seat?

Would it not serve to entertain your friends?

LOVELL: A well-built pile; and she that's mistress of it,

Worthy the large revenue.

OVERREACH: She, the mistress?

It may be so for a time; but let my lord

Say only he but like it, and would have it,

I say ere long 'tis his.

LOVELL: Impossible.

OVERREACH: You do conclude too fast. 'Tis not alone

The Lady Allworth's lands; for these, once Wellborn's

(As, by her dotage on him, I know they will be),

Shall soon be mine. But point out any man's

In all the shire, and say they lie convenient

And useful for your lordship, and once more

I say aloud, they are yours.

LOVELL: I dare not own

What's by unjust and cruel means extorted:

My fame and credit are too dear to me.

OVERREACH: Your reputation shall stand as fair

In all good men's opinions as now.

All my ambition is to have my daughter

Right honourable; which my lord can make her:

And might I live to dance upon my knee

A young Lord Lovell, borne by her unto you,

I write _nil ultra_ to my proudest hopes.

I'll ruin the country to supply your waste:

The scourge of prodigals, want, shall never find you.

LOVELL: Are you not moved with the imprecations

And curses of whole families, made wretched

By these practices?

OVERREACH: Yes, as rocks are,

When foamy billows split themselves against

Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved

When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness.

I only think what 'tis to have my daughter

Right honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm,

Makes me insensible of remorse, or pity,

Or the least sting of conscience.

LOVELL: I admire

The toughness of your nature.

OVERREACH: 'Tis for you,

My lord, and for my daughter I am marble.

My haste commands me hence: in one word, therefore,

Is it a match, my lord?

LOVELL: I hope that is past doubt now.

OVERREACH: Then rest secure; not the hate of all mankind,

Not fear of what can fall on me hereafter,

Shall make me study aught but your advancement

One storey higher: an earl! if gold can do it. [_Exit._

LOVELL: He's gone; I wonder how the earth can bear

Such a portent! I, that have lived a soldier,

And stood the enemy's violent charge undaunted,

Am bathed in a cold sweat.

SCENE II.--_A chamber in_ SIR GILES'S _house. Enter_ WELLBORN _and_

MARRALL.

WELLBORN: Now, Master Marrall, what's the weighty secret

You promised to impart?

MARRALL: This only, in a word: I know Sir Giles

Will come upon you for security

For his thousand pounds; which you must not consent to.

As he grows in heat (as I'm sure he will),

Be you but rough, and say, he's in your debt

Ten times the sum upon sale of your land.

The deed in which you passed it over to him

Bid him produce: he'll have it to deliver

To the Lord Lovell, with many other writings,

And present moneys. I'll instruct you farther

As I wait on your worship.

WELLBORN: I trust thee.

[_Exeunt. Enter_ MARGARET _as if in anger, followed

by_ ALLWORTH.

MARGARET: I'll pay my lord all debts due to his title;

And when with terms not taking from his honour

He does solicit me, I shall gladly hear him:

But in this peremptory, nay, commanding way,

To appoint a meeting, and without my knowledge,

Shows a confidence that deceives his lordship.

ALLWORTH: I hope better, good lady.

MARGARET: Hope, sir, what you please; I have

A father, and, without his full consent,

I can grant nothing.

[_Enter_ OVERREACH, _having overheard_.

OVERREACH _(aside)_: I like this obedience.

But whatever my lord writes must and shall be

Accepted and embraced. (_Addressing_ Allworth.) Sweet Master Allworth,

You show yourself a true and faithful servant.

How! frowning, Meg? Are these looks to receive

A messenger from my lord? In name of madness,

What could his honour write more to content you?

MARGARET: Why, sir, I would be married like your daughter,

Not hurried away in the night, I know not whither,

Without all ceremony; no friends invited,

To honour the solemmnity.

ALLWORTH: My lord desires this privacy, in respect

His honourable kinsmen are far off;

And he desires there should be no delay.

MARGARET: Give me but in the church, and I'm content.

OVERREACH: So my lord have you, what care I who gives you?

Lord Lovell would be private, I'll not cross him.

Use my ring to my chaplain; he is beneficed

At my manor of Gotham, and called Parson Willdo.

MARGARET: What warrant is your ring? He may suppose

I got that twenty ways without your knowledge.

Your presence would do better.

OVERREACH: Still perverse!

Paper and ink there.

ALLWORTH: I can furnish you.

OVERREACH: I thank you; I can write then.

[_Writes on his book_.

ALLWORTH: You may, if you please, leave out the name of my lord,

In respect he comes disguised, and only write,

"Marry her to this gentleman."

OVERREACH: Well advised.

[MARGARET _kneels_.

'Tis done; away--my blessing, girl? Thou hast it.

[_Exeunt_ ALLWORTH _and_ MARGARET.

OVERREACH: Farewell! Now all's cock sure.

Methink I hear already knights and ladies

Say, "Sir Giles Overreach, how is it with

Your honourable daughter? Has her honour

Slept well to-night?" Now for Wellborn

And the lands; were he once married to the widow--I

have him here. [_Exit._

ACT III

SCENE I.--_A chamber in_ LADY ALLWORTH'S _house. Enter_ LOVELL

_and_ LADY ALLWORTH _contracted to one another. He has

told her that only a desire to promote the union of her

promising young stepson_, ALLWORTH, _with_ MARGARET

OVERREACH _tempted him into a seeming courtship of_ SIR

GILES'S _daughter. She has told him that her somewhat

exaggerated courtesies and attentions to_ WELLBORN _were

an obligation paid to one who in his prosperous days had

ventured all for her dead husband. To them enter_

WELLBORN _in a rich habit_.

LADY ALLWORTH: You're welcome, sir. Now you look like yourself.

WELLBORN: Your creature, madam. I will never hold

My life my own, when you please to command it.

LADY ALLWORTH: I'm glad my endeavours prospered. Saw you lately

Sir Giles, your uncle?

WELLBORN: I heard of him, madam,

By his minister, Marrall. He's grown into strange passions

About his daughter. This last night he looked for

Your lordship at his house; but missing you,

And she not yet appearing, his wise head

Is much perplexed and troubled.

OVERREACH (_outside_): Ha! find her, booby; thou huge lump of nothing.

I'll bore thine eyes out else.

WELLBORN: May't please your lordship,

For some ends of my own, but to withdraw

A little out of sight, though not of hearing.

LOVELL: You shall direct me.

[_Steps aside. Enter_ OVERREACH, _with distracted looks,

driving in_ MARRALL _before him_.

OVERREACH: Lady, by your leave, did you see my daughter, lady,

And the lord, her husband? Are they in your house?

If they are, discover, that I may bid them joy;

And, as an entrance to her place of honour,

See your ladyship on her left hand, and make curt'sies

When she nods on you; which you must receive

As a special favour.

LADY ALLWORTH: When I know, Sir Giles,

Her state require such ceremony I shall pay it;

Meantime, I neither know nor care where she is.

OVERREACH: Nephew!

WELLBORN: Well.

OVERREACH: No more!

WELLBORN: 'Tis all I owe you.

OVERREACH: I am familiar with the cause that makes you

Bear up thus bravely; there's a certain buz

Of a stolen marriage--do you hear? Of a stolen marriage;

In which, 'tis said, there's somebody hath been cozened.

I name no parties.

[LADY ALLWORTH _turns away_.

WELLBORN: Well, sir, and what follows?

OVERREACH: Marry, this, since you are peremptory. Remember

Upon mere hope of your great match I lent you

A thousand pounds. Put me in good security,

And suddenly, by mortgage or by statute,

Of some of your new possessions, or I'll have you

Dragged in your lavender robes to the jail.

Shall I have security?

WELLBORN: No, indeed, you shall not:

Nor bond, nor bill, nor bare acknowledgment;

Your great looks fright not me. And whereas, sir,

You charge me with a debt of a thousand pounds,

Either restore my land, or I'll recover

A debt, that is truly due to me from you,

In value ten times more than what you challenge.

OVERREACH: Oh, monstrous impudence! Did I not purchase

The land left by thy father? [_Enter servant with a box_.

Is not here

The deed that does confirm it mine?

MARRALL: Now, now.

WELLBORN: I do acknowledge none; I ne'er passed o'er

Any such land; I grant, for a year or two,

You had it in trust; which if you do discharge,

Surrendering the possession, you shall ease

Yourself and me of chargeable suits in law.

LADY ALLWORTH: In my opinion, he advises well.

OVERREACH: Good, good; conspire with your new husband, lady.

(_To_ WELLBORN) Yet, to shut up thy mouth, and make thee give

Thyself the lie, the loud lie! I draw out

The precious evidence. (_Opens the box_.) Ha!

LADY ALLWORTH: A fair skin of parchment.

WELLBORN: Indented, I confess, and labels too;

But neither wax nor words. How? Thunderstruck!

Is this your precious evidence, my wise uncle?

OVERREACH: What prodigy is this? What subtle devil

Hath razed out the inscription--the wax

Turned into dust? Do you deal with witches, rascal?

This juggling shall not save you.

WELLBORN: To save thee would beggar the stock of mercy.

OVERREACH: Marrall!

MARRALL: Sir.

OVERREACH (_flattering him_): Though the witnesses are dead,

Help with an oath or two; and for thy master

I know thou wilt swear anything to dash

This cunning sleight; the deed being drawn, too,

By thee, my careful Marrall, and delivered

When thou wert present, will make good my title.

Wilt thou not swear this?

MARRALL: I have a conscience not seared up like yours;

I know no deeds.

OVERREACH: Wilt thou betray me?

MARRALL: Yes, and uncase you, too. The lump of flesh,

The idiot, the patch, the slave, the booby,

The property fit only to be beaten,

Can now anatomise you, and lay open

All your black plots.

OVERREACH: But that I will live, rogue, to torture thee,

And make thee wish and kneel in vain to die,

These swords, that keep thee from me, should fix here.

I play the fool and make my anger but ridiculous.

There will be a time, and place, there will be, cowards!

When you shall feel what I dare do.

After these storms, at length a calm appears.

[_Enter_ PARSON WILLDO.

Welcome, most welcome; is the deed done?

WILLDO: Yes, I assure you.

OVERREACH: Vanish all sad thoughts!

My doubts and fears are in the titles drowned

Of my right honourable, right honourable daughter.

A lane there for my lord!

[_Loud music. Enter_ ALLWORTH, MARGARET, _and_ LOVELL.

MARGARET: Sir, first your pardon, then your blessing, with

Your full allowance of the choice I have made.

(_Kneeling_) This is my husband.

OVERREACH: How?

ALLWORTH: So I assure you.

OVERREACH: Devil! Are they married?

WILLDO: They are married, sir; but why this rage to me?

Is not this your letter, sir? And these the words,

"Marry her to this gentleman"?

OVERREACH: I never will believe it, 'death! I will not;

That I should be gulled, baffled, fooled, defeated

By children, all my hopes and labours crossed.

WELLBORN: You are so, my grave uncle, it appears.

OVERREACH: Village nurses revenge their wrongs with curses,

I'll waste no words, but thus I take the life

Which, wretch, I gave to thee.

[_Offers to kill_ MARGARET.

LOVELL: Hold, for your own sake!

OVERREACH: Lord! thus I spit at thee,

And at thy counsel; and again desire thee

As thou'rt a soldier, let us quit the house

And change six words in private.

LOVELL: I am ready.

LADY ALLWORTH: Stay, sir; would you contest with

one distraited?

OVERREACH: Are you pale?

Borrow his help; though Hercules call it odds,

I'll stand against both, as I am, hemmed in thus.

Alone, I can do nothing, but I have servants

And friends to succour me; and if I make not

This house a heap of ashes, or leave one throat uncut,

Hell add to my afflictions! [_Exit._

MARRALL: Is't not brave sport?

ALLWORTH (_to_ MARGARET): Nay, weep not, dearest,

though't express your pity.

MARRALL: Was it not a rare trick,

An't please your worship, to make the deed nothing?

I can do twenty neater, if you please

To purchase and grow rich. They are mysteries

Not to be spoke in public; certain minerals

Incorporated in the ink and wax.

WELLBORN: You are a rascal. He that dares be false

To a master, though unjust, will ne'er be true

To any other. Look not for reward

Or favour from me. Instantly begone.

MARRALL: At this haven false servants still arrive.

[_Exit. Re-enter_ OVERREACH.

WILLDO: Some little time I have spent, under your favours,

In physical studies, and, if my judgment err not,

He's mad beyond recovery.

OVERREACH: Were they a squadron of pikes, when I am mounted

Upon my injuries, shall I fear to charge them?

[_Flourishing his sword sheathed_.

I'll fall to execution--ha! I am feeble:

Some undone widow sits upon mine arm,

And takes away the use of 't! And my sword,

Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,

Will not be drawn. Are these the hangmen?

But I'll be forced to hell like to myself;

Though you were legions of accursed spirits,

Thus would I fly among you. [_Rushes forward_.

WELLBORN: There's no help;

Disarm him first, then bind him.

MARGARET: Oh, my dear father!

[_They force_ OVERREACH _off_.

ALLWORTH: You must be patient, mistress.

LOVELL: Pray take comfort.

I will endeavour you shall be his guardians

In his distraction: and for your land, Master Wellborn,

Be it good or ill in law, I'll be an umpire

Between you and this the undoubted heir

Of Sir Giles Overreach; for me, here's the anchor

That I must fix on.

[_Takes_ LADY ALLWORTH'S _hand_.

FOOTNOTES:

[Z] Of all Shakespeare's immediate successors one of the most

powerful, as well as the most prolific, was Philip Massinger. The son

of a retainer in the household of the Earl of Pembroke, he was born

during the second half of 1583, and entered St. Alban's Hall, Oxford,

in 1602, but left without a degree four years later. Coming to London,

he appears to have mixed freely with writers for the stage, and soon

made a reputation as playwright. The full extent of his literary

activities is not known, inasmuch as a great deal of his work has

been lost. He also collaborated with other authors, particularly with

Fletcher (see Vol. XVI, p. 133) in whose grave he was buried on March

18, 1639. It is certain, however, that he wrote single-handed fifteen

plays, of which the best known is the masterly and satirical comedy,

"A New Way to Pay Old Debts." Printed in 1633, but probably written

between 1625 and 1626, the piece retained its popularity longer than

any other of Massinger's plays. The construction is ingenious, the

dialogue witty, but the _dramatis personæ_, with the exception of Sir

Giles Overreach, are feeble and without vitality.

JOHN MILTON[AA]

Paradise Lost

_I.--The Army of the Rebel Angels_

The poem opens with an invocation to the Heavenly Muse for

enlightenment and inspiration.

Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

Brought death into the World, and all our woe,

With loss of Eden, till one greater Man

Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,

Sing, Heavenly Muse, that, on the secret top

Of Horeb, or of Sinai, didst inspire

That Shepherd who first taught the chosen seed

In the beginning how the heavens and earth

Rose out of Chaos; or, if Sion's hill

Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flowed

Fast by the oracle of God, I thence

Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song,

That with no middle flight intends to soar

Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues

Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.

And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer

Before all temples the upright heart and pure,

Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first

Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread,

Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss,

And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark

Illumine, what is low raise and support;

That, to the highth of this great argument,

I may assert Eternal Providence,

And justify the ways of God to men.

Say first--for Heaven hides nothing from thy view,

Nor the deep tract of Hell--say first what cause

Moved our grand Parents, in that happy state,

Favoured of Heaven so highly, to fall off

From their Creator, and trangress his will.

The infernal serpent; he it was whose guile,

Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived

The mother of mankind, what time his pride

Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host

Of rebel angels. Him the Almighty Power

Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky,

With hideous ruin and combustion, down

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

In adamantine chains and penal fire,

Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.

For nine days and nights the apostate Angel lay silent, "rolling in

the fiery gulf," and then, looking round, he discerned by his side

Beelzebub, "one next himself in power and next in crime." With him he

took counsel, and rearing themselves from off the pool of fire they

found footing on a dreary plain. Walking with uneasy steps the burning

marle, the lost Archangel made his way to the shore of "that inflamed

sea," and called aloud to his associates, to "Awake, arise, or be for

ever fallen!" They heard, and gathered about him, all who were "known

to men by various names and various idols through the heathen world,"

but with looks "downcast and damp." He--

Then straight commands that, at the warlike sound

Of trumpets loud and clarions, be upreared

His mighty standard. That proud honour claimed

Azazel as his right, a cherub tall,

Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurled

The imperial ensign....

At which the universal host up-sent

A shout that tore Hell's conclave, and beyond

Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.

The mighty host now circled in orderly array about "their dread

Commander."

He, above the rest

In shape and gesture proudly eminent,

Stood like a tower. His form had not yet lost

All its original brightness, nor appeared

Less than an Archangel ruined, and the excess

Of glory obscured: as when the sun new-risen

Looks through the horizontal misty air

Shorn of his beams, or, from behind the moon,

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds

On half the nations, and with fear of change

Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone

Above them all the Archangel. But his face

Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care

Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows

Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride,

Waiting revenge....

He now prepared

To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bend

From wing to wing, and half enclose him round

With all his peers. Attention held them mute.

Thrice he assayed and thrice, in spite of scorn,

Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth; at last

Words interwove with sighs found out their way:

"O myriads of immortal Spirits! O Powers,

Matchless, but with the Almighty!--and that strife

Was not inglorious, though the event was dire,

As this place testifies, and this dire change,

Hateful to utter. But what power of mind,

Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth

Of knowledge past or present, could have feared

How such united force of gods, how such

As stood like these, could ever know repulse?

He who reigns

Monarch in Heaven till then as one secure

Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute,

Consent, or custom, and his regal state

Put forth at full, but still his strength concealed--

Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall.

Henceforth his might we know, and know our own,

So as not either to provoke, or dread

New war provoked. Our better part remains

To work in close design, by fraud or guile,

What force effected not; that he no less

At length from us may find, Who overcomes

By force hath overcome but half his foe.

Space may produce more Worlds, whereof so rife

There went a fame in Heaven that He ere long

Intended to create, and therein plant

A generation whom his choice regard

Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven.

Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps

Our first eruption--thither, or elsewhere;

For this infernal pit shall never hold

Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the Abyss

Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts

Full counsel must mature. Peace is despaired;

For who can think submission? War, then, war

Open or understood, must be resolved."

He spake; and to confirm his words, out-flew

Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs

Of mighty Cherubim. The sudden blaze

Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged.

Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms

Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war,

Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.

The exiled host now led by Mammon, "the least erected Spirit that fell

from Heaven," proceeded to build Pandemonium, their architect being

him whom "men called Mulciber," and here

The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim

In close recess and secret conclave sat

A thousand demi-gods on golden seats.

_II.--The Fiends' Conclave_

High on a throne of royal state, which far

Outshone the wealth of Ormus or of Ind,

Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand

Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,

Satan exalted sat, by merit raised

To that bad eminence.

Here his compeers gathered round to advise. First Moloch, the

"strongest and the fiercest Spirit that fought in Heaven," counselled

war. Then uprose Belial--"a fairer person lost not Heaven"--and

reasoned that force was futile.

"The towers of Heaven are filled

With armed watch, that render all access

Impregnable."

Besides, failure might lead to their annihilation, and who wished for

that?

"Who would lose,

Though full of pain, this intellectual being,

These thoughts that wander through eternity?"

They were better now than when they were hurled from Heaven, or when

they lay chained on the burning lake. Their Supreme Foe might in time

remit his anger, and slacken those raging fires. Mammon also advised

them to keep the peace, and make the best they could of Hell, a policy

received with applause; but then Beelzebub, "than whom, Satan except,

none higher sat," rose, and with a look which "drew audience and

attention still as night," developed the suggestion previously made by

Satan, that they should attack Heaven's High Arbitrator through His

new-created Man, waste his creation, and "drive as we are driven."

"This would surpass

Common revenge, and interrupt His joy

In our confusion, and our joy upraise

In His disturbance."

This proposal was gleefully received. But then the difficulty arose

who should be sent in search of this new world? All sat mute, till

Satan declared that he would "abroad through all the coasts of dark

destruction," a decision hailed with reverent applause. The Council

dissolved, the Infernal Peers disperse to their several employments:

some to sports, some to warlike feats, some to argument, "in wandering

mazes lost," some to adventurous discovery; while Satan wings his

way to the nine-fold gate of Hell, guarded by Sin, and her abortive

offspring, Death; and Sin, opening the gate for him to go out, cannot

shut it again. The Fiend stands on the brink, "pondering his voyage,"

while before him appear

The secrets of the hoary Deep--on dark

Illimitable ocean, without bound,

Without dimension; where length, breadth, and highth,

And time, and place, are lost; where eldest Night

And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold

Eternal anarchy.

At last he spreads his "sail-broad vans for flight," and, directed by

Chaos and sable-vested Night, comes to where he can see far off

The empyreal Heaven, once his native seat,

And, fast by, hanging in a golden chain,

This pendent World.

_III.--Satan Speeds to Earth_

An invocation to Light, and a lament for the poet's blindness now

preludes a picture of Heaven, and the Almighty Father conferring with

the only Son.

Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born!

Bright effluence of bright essence uncreate!

Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the Sun,

Before the Heavens, thou wert, and at the voice

Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest

The rising World of waters dark and deep,

Won from the void and formless Infinite!

............................ But thou

Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain

To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn.

............................ With the year

Seasons return; but not to me returns

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,

Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;

But clouds instead, and ever-during dark

Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men

Cut off.

God, observing the approach of Satan to the world, foretells the fall

of Man to the Son, who listens while

In his face

Divine compassion visibly appeared,

Love without end, and without measure grace.

The Father asks where such love can be found as will redeem man by

satisfying eternal Justice.

He asked, but all the Heavenly Quire stood mute,

And silence was in Heaven.

Admiration seized all Heaven, and "to the ground they cast their

crowns in solemn adoration," when the Son replied

"Account me Man. I for his sake will leave

Thy bosom, and this glory next to Thee

Freely put off, and for him lastly die

Well pleased; on me let Death wreak all his rage.

Under his gloomy power I shall not long

Lie vanquished."

While the immortal quires chanted their praise, Satan drew near, and

sighted the World--the sun, earth, moon, and companion planets--

As when a scout,

Through dark and desert ways with peril gone

All night, at last by break of cheerful dawn

Obtains the brow of some high-climbing hill,

Which to his eye discovers unaware

The goodly prospect of some foreign land

First seen, or some renowned metropolis

With glistening spires and pinnacles adorned,

Which now the rising Sun gilds with his beams,

Such wonder seized, though after Heaven seen,

The Spirit malign, but much more envy seized,

At sight of all this world beheld so fair.

Flying to the Sun, and taking the form of "a stripling Cherub," Satan

recognises there the Archangel Uriel and accosts him.

"Brightest Seraph, tell

In which of all these shining orbs hath Man

His fixed seat."

And Uriel, although held to be "the sharpest-sighted Spirit of all in

Heaven," was deceived, for angels cannot discern hypocrisy. So Uriel,

pointing, answers:

"That place is Earth, the seat of Man....

That spot to which I point is Paradise,

Adam's abode; those lofty shades his bower.

Thy way thou canst not miss; me mine requires."

Thus said, he turned; and Satan, bowing low,

As to superior Spirits is wont in Heaven,

Where honour due and reverence none neglects,

Took leave, and toward the coast of Earth beneath,

Down from the ecliptic, sped with hoped success,

Throws his steep flight in many an aery wheel,

Nor stayed till on Niphantes' top he lights.

_IV.--Of Adam and Eve in Paradise_

Coming within sight of Paradise Satan's conscience is aroused, and he

grieves over the suffering his dire work will entail, exclaiming

"Me miserable; which way shall I fly

Infinite wrath and infinite despair?

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell."

But he cannot brook submission, and hardens his heart afresh.

"So farewell hope, and, with hope, farewell fear,

Farewell remorse! All good to me is lost;

Evil, be thou my Good."

As he approaches Paradise more closely, the deliciousness of the place

affects even his senses.

As when to them who sail

Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past

Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow

Sabean odours from the spicy shore

Of Araby the Blest, with such delay

Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league

Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles,

So entertained those odorous sweets the Fiend.

At last, after sighting "all kind of living creatures new to sight and

strange," he descries Man.

Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,

God-like erect, with native honour clad

In naked majesty, seemed lords of all,

And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine

The image of their glorious Maker shone.

For contemplation he and valour formed,

For softness she and sweet attractive grace;

He for God only, she for God in Him.

So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair

That ever since in love's embraces met--

Adam the goodliest man of men since born

His sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve.

At the sight of the gentle pair, Satan again almost relents. Taking

the shape of various animals, he approaches to hear them talk and

finds from Adam that the only prohibition laid on them is partaking

of the Tree of Knowledge. Eve, replying, tells how she found herself

alive, saw her form reflected in the water, and thought herself fairer

even than Adam until

"Thy gentle hand

Seized mine; I yielded, and from that time see

How beauty is excelled by manly grace

And wisdom, which alone is truly fair."

While Satan roams through Paradise, with "sly circumspection," Uriel

descends on an evening sunbeam to warn Gabriel, chief of the angelic

guards, that a suspected Spirit, with looks "alien from Heaven," had

passed to earth, and Gabriel promises to find him before dawn.

Now came still Evening on, and Twilight gray

Had in her sober livery all things clad;

Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,

They to their grassy couch, these to their nests

Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.

She all night long her amorous descant sung.

Silence was pleased. Now glowed the firmament

With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led

The starry host, rode brightest, till the Moon,

Rising in clouded majesty, at length

Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,

And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

Adam and Eve talk ere they retire to rest--she questioning him

"Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,

With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the Sun,

When first on this delightful land he spreads

His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,

Glistening with dew; fragrant the fertile Earth

After soft showers; and sweet the coming on

Of grateful Evening mild; then silent Night

With this her solemn bird, and this fair Moon,

And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train;

But neither breath of Morn, when she ascends

With charm of earliest birds; nor rising Sun

On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,

Glistening with dew; nor fragrance after showers,

Nor grateful Evening mild; nor silent Night,

With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon,

Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet.

But wherefore all night long shine these? For whom

This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?"

Adam replies:

"These have their course to finish round the Earth,

And they, though unbeheld in deep of night,

Shine not in vain. Nor think, though men were none,

That Heaven would want spectators, God want praise.

Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth

Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep;

All these with ceaseless praise His works behold

Both day and night."....

Thus talking, hand in hand, alone they passed

On to their blissful bower.

Gabriel then sends the Cherubim, "armed to their night watches," and

commands Ithuriel and Zephon to search the Garden, where they find

Satan, "squat like a toad close to the ear of Eve," seeking to taint

her dreams.

Him thus intent Ithuriel with his spear

Touched lightly; for no falsehood can endure

Touch of celestial temper, but returns

Of force to its own likeness.

Satan therefore starts up in his own person, and is conducted to

Gabriel, who sees him coming with them, "a third, of regal port, but

faded splendour wan." Gabriel and he engage in a heated altercation,

and a fight seems imminent between the Fiend and the angelic squadrons

that "begin to hem him round," when, by a sign in the sky, Satan is

reminded of his powerlessness in open fight, and flees, murmuring;

"and with him fled the shades of Night."

_V.--The Morning Hymn of Praise_

Adam, waking in the morning, finds Eve flushed and distraught, and she

tells him of her troublous dreams. He cheers her, and they pass out to

the open field, and, adoring, raise their morning hymn of praise.

"These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good,

Almighty! Thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair--Thyself how wondrous then!

Unspeakable! Who sittest above these heavens

To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these Thy lowest works; yet these declare

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.

Speak, ye who best can tell, ye Sons of Light,

Angels--for ye behold Him, and with songs

And chloral symphonies, day without night,

Circle His throne rejoicing--ye in Heaven;

On Earth join, all ye creatures, to extol

Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end.

Fairest of Stars, last in the train of Night,

If better than belong not to the Dawn,

Sure pledge of Day, that crown'st the smiling morn

With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere

While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.

Thou Sun, of this great World both eye and soul,

Acknowledge Him thy greater; sound His praise

In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st

And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st.

Moon, that now meet'st the orient Sun, now fliest,

With the fixed Stars, fixed in their orb, that flies;

And ye five other wandering Fires, that move

In mystic dance, not without song, resound

His praise Who out of Darkness called up Light.

Ye Mists and Exhalations, that now rise

From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,

Till the Sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,

In honour to the World's great Author rise;

Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky,

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,

Rising or falling, still advance His praise.

His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow,

Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines,

With every plant in sign of worship wave.

Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow,

Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune His praise.

Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye Birds,

That, singing, up to Heaven's gate ascend,

Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise.

Hail universal Lord! Be bounteous still

To give us only good; and, if the night

Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark."

So prayed they innocent, and to their thoughts

Firm peace recovered soon, and wonted calm.

The Almighty now sends Raphael, "the sociable Spirit," from Heaven

to warn Adam of his danger, and alighting on the eastern cliff of

Paradise, the Seraph shakes his plumes and diffuses heavenly fragrance

around; then moving through the forest is seen by Adam, who, with

Eve, entertains him, and seizes the occasion to ask him of "their

Being Who dwell in Heaven," and further, what is meant by the angelic

caution--"If ye be found obedient." Raphael thereupon tells of the

disobedience, in Heaven, of Satan, and his fall, "from that high

state of bliss into what woe." He tells how the Divine decree of

obedience to the Only Son was received by Satan with envy, because he

felt "himself impaired"; and how, consulting with Beelzebub, he drew

away all the Spirits under their command to the "spacious North,"

and, taunting them with being eclipsed, proposed that they should

rebel. Only Abdiel remained faithful, and urged them to cease their

"impious rage," and seek pardon in time, or they might find that He

Who had created them could uncreate them.

So spake the Seraph Abdiel, faithful found;

Among the faithless faithful only he;

Among innumerable false unmoved,

Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,

His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal;

Nor number nor example with him wrought

To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind

Though single.

_VI.--The Story of Satan's Revolt_

Raphael, continuing, tells Adam how Abdiel flew back to Heaven with

the story of the revolt, but found it was known. The Sovran Voice

having welcomed the faithful messenger with "Servant of God, well

done!" orders the Archangels Michael and Gabriel to lead forth the

celestial armies, while the banded powers of Satan are hastening on

to set the Proud Aspirer on the very Mount of God. "Long time in even

scale the battle hung," but with the dawning of the third day, the

Father directed the Messiah to ascend his chariot, and end the strife.

"Far off his coming shone," and at His presence "Heaven his wonted

face renewed, and with fresh flowerets hill and valley smiled." But,

nearing the foe, His countenance changed into a terror "too severe to

be beheld."

Full soon among them He arrived, in His right hand

Grasping ten thousand thunders....

They, astonished, all resistance lost,

All courage; down their idle weapons dropt....

.... Headlong themselves they threw

Down from the verge of Heaven; eternal wrath

Burnt after them to the bottomless pit.

A like fate, Raphael warns Adam, may befall mankind if they are guilty

of disobedience.

_VII.--The New Creation_

The "affable Archangel," at Adam's request, continues his talk by

telling how the world began. Lest Lucifer should take a pride in

having "dispeopled Heaven," God announces to the Son that he will

create another world, and a race to dwell in it who may

Open to themselves at length the way

Up hither, under long obedience tried,

And Earth be changed to Heaven, and Heaven to Earth,

This creation is to be the work of the Son, who, girt with

omnipotence, prepares to go forth.

Heaven opened wide

Her ever-daring gates, harmonious sound

On golden hinges moving, to let forth

The King of Glory, in his powerful Word

And Spirit coming to create new worlds.

On Heavenly ground they stood, and from the shore

They viewed the vast immeasurable Abyss

Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild,

Up from the bottom turned by furious winds

And surging waves, as mountains to assault

Heaven's highth, and with the centre mix the pole.

"Silence, ye troubled waves, and thou Deep, peace!"

Said then the omnific Word. "Your discord end!"

Nor stayed; but on the wings of cherubim,

Uplifted in paternal glory rode

Far into Chaos and the World unborn;

For Chaos heard his voice....

And Earth, self-balanced on her centre hung.

The six days' creative work is then described in the order of Genesis.

_VIII.--The Creation of Adam_

Asked by Adam to tell him about the motions of the heavenly bodies,

Raphael adjures him to refrain from thought on "matters hid; to serve

God and fear; and to be lowly wise." He then asks Adam to tell him of

his creation, he having at the time been absent on "excursion toward

the gates of Hell." Adam complies, and relates how he appealed to

God for a companion, and was answered in the fairest of God's gifts.

Raphael warns Adam to beware lest passion for Eve sway his judgment,

for on him depends the weal or woe, not only of himself, but of all

his sons.

_IX.--The Temptation and the Fall_

While Raphael was in Paradise, for seven nights, Satan hid himself by

circling round in the shadow of the Earth, then, rising as a mist, he

crept into Eden undetected, and entered the serpent as the "fittest

imp of fraud," but not until once more lamenting that the enjoyment of

the earth was not for him. In the morning, when the human pair came

forth to their pleasant labours, Eve suggested that they should work

apart, for when near each other "looks intervene and smiles," and

casual discourse. Adam replied, defending "this sweet intercourse of

looks and smiles," and saying they had been made not for irksome toil,

but for delight.

"But if much converse perhaps

Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield;

For solitude sometimes is best society,

And short retirement urges sweet return.

But other doubt possessed me, lest harm

Befall thee....

The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,

Safest and seemliest by her husband stays

Who guards her, or the worst with her endures."

Eve replies:

"That such an enemy we have, who seeks

Our ruin, both by thee informed I learn,

And from the parting Angel overheard,

As in a shady nook I stood behind,

Just then returned at shut of evening flowers."

She, however, repels the suggestion that she can be deceived. Adam

replies that he does not wish her to be tempted, and that united they

would be stronger and more watchful. Eve responds that if Eden is so

exposed that they are not secure apart, how can they be happy? Adams

gives way, with the explanation that it is not mistrust but tender

love that enjoins him to watch over her, and, as she leaves him,

Her long with ardent look his eye pursued

Delighted, but desiring more her stay.

Oft he to her his charge of quick return

Repeated; she to him as oft engaged

To be returned by noon amid the bower,

And all things in best order to invite

Noontide repast, or afternoon's repose.

O much deceived, much failing, hapless Eve,

Of thy presumed return! Event perverse!

Thou never from that hour in Paradise

Found'st either sweet repast or sound repose.

The Fiend, questing through the garden, finds her

Veiled in a cloud of fragrance where she stood

Half-spied, so thick the roses bushing round

About her glowed.... Them she upstays

Gently with myrtle band, mindless the while

Herself, though fairest unsupported flower,

From her best prop so far, and storm so nigh.

Seeing her, Satan "much the place admired, the person more."

As one who, long in populous city pent,

Forth issuing on a summer's morn to breathe

Among the pleasant villages and farms

Adjoined, from each thing met conceives delight--

The smell of grain, of tedded grass, of kine,

Of dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound--

If chance with nymph-like step fair virgin pass,

What pleasing seemed, for her now pleases more,

She most, and in her look seems all delight.

Such pleasure took the Serpent to behold

This flowery plat, the sweet recess of Eve

Thus early, thus alone.

The original serpent did not creep on the ground, but was a handsome

creature.

With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect

Amidst his circling spires, that on the grass

Floated redundant. Pleasing was his shape

And lovely.

Appearing before Eve with an air of worshipful admiration, and

speaking in human language, the arch-deceiver gains her ear with

flattery. "Empress of this fair world, resplendent Eve." She asks how

it is that man's language is pronounced by "tongue of brute." The

reply is that the power came through eating the fruit of a certain

tree, which gave him reason, and also constrained him to worship her

as "sovran of creatures." Asked to show her the tree, he leads her

swiftly to the Tree of Prohibition, and replying to her scruples and

fears, declares--

"Queen of the Universe! Do not believe

Those rigid threats of death. Ye shall not die.

How should ye? By the fruit? It gives you life

To knowledge. By the Threatener? Look on me--

Me who have touched and tasted, yet both live

And life more perfect have attained than Fate

Meant me, by venturing higher than my lot.

Shall that be shut to Man which to the Beast

Is open? Or will God incense his ire

For such a petty trespass?...

God therefore cannot hurt ye and be just.

Goddess humane, reach, then, and freely taste!"

He ended; and his words replete with guile

Into her heart too easy entrance won.

Eve herself then took up the argument and repeated admiringly the

Serpent's persuasions.

"In the day we eat

Of this fair fruit our doom is we shall die!

How dies the Serpent? He hath eaten and lives,

And knows, and speaks, and reasons, and discerns,

Irrational till then. For us alone

Was death invented? Or to us denied

This intellectual food, for beasts reserved?

Here grows the care of all, this fruit divine,

Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste,

Of virtue to make wise. What hinders then

To reach and feed at once both body and mind?"

So saying, her rash hand in evil hour

Forth-reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate.

Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat,

Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe

That all was lost. Back to the thicket slunk

The guilty serpent.

At first elated by the fruit, Eve presently began to reflect, excuse

herself, and wonder what the effect would be on Adam.

"And I perhaps am secret. Heaven is high--

High, and remote to see from thence distinct

Each thing on Earth; and other care perhaps

May have diverted from continual watch

Our great Forbidder, safe with all his spies

About him. But to Adam in what sort

Shall I appear? Shall I to him make known

As yet my change?

But what if God have seen

And death ensue? Then I shall be no more;

And Adam, wedded to another Eve,

Shall live with her enjoying, I extinct!

A death to think! Confirmed then, I resolve

Adam shall share with me in bliss or woe,

So dear I love him that with him all deaths

I could endure, without him live no life."

Adam the while

Waiting desirous her return, had wove

Of choicest flowers a garland, to adorn

Her tresses.... Soon as he heard

The fatal trespass done by Eve amazed,

From his slack hand the garland wreathed for her

Down dropt, and all the faded roses shed.

Speechless he stood and pale, till thus at length,

First to himself he inward silence broke:

"O fairest of creation, last and best

Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled

Whatever came to sight or thought be formed,

Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet,

How art thou lost! how on a sudden lost!

Some cursed fraud

Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown,

And me with thee hath ruined; for with thee

Certain my resolution is to die.

How can I live without thee? How forego

Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined,

To live again in these wild words forlorn?"

Then, turning to Eve, he tries to comfort her.

"Perhaps thou shalt not die ...

Nor can I think that God, Creator wise,

Though threatening, will in earnest so destroy

Us, His prime creatures, dignified so high,

Set over all his works....

However, I with thee have fixed my lot,

Certain to undergo like doom. If death

Consort with thee, death is to me as life.

Our state cannot be severed; we are one."

So Adam; and thus Eve to him replied:

"O glorious trial of exceeding love,

Illustrious evidence, example high!"

So saying she embraced him, and for joy

Tenderly wept, much won that he his love

Had so ennobled as of choice to incur

Divine displeasure for her sake, or death.

In recompense ...

She gave him of that fair enticing fruit

With liberal hand. He scrupled not to eat

Against his better knowledge, not deceived,

But fondly overcome with female charm.

The effect of the fruit on them is first to excite lust with guilty

shame following, and realising this after "the exhilarating vapour

bland" had spent its force, Adam found utterance for his remorse.

"O Eve, in evil hour thou didst give ear

To that false Worm....

... How shall I behold the face

Henceforth of God or Angel, erst with joy

And rapture so oft beheld? Those Heavenly shapes

Will dazzle now this earthly with their blaze

Insufferably bright. Oh, might I here

In solitude live savage, in some glade

Obscured, where highest winds, impenetrable

To star or sunlight, spread their umbrage broad,

And brown as evening! Cover me, ye pines!

Ye cedars, with innumerable boughs

Hide me, where I may never see them more!"

Then they cower in the woods, and clothe themselves with leaves.

Covered, but not at rest or ease of mind

They sat them down to weep.

But passion also took possession of them, and they began to taunt each

other with recriminations. Adam, with estranged look, exclaimed:

"Would thou hadst hearkened to my words, and stayed

With me, as I besought thee, when that strange

Desire of wandering, this unhappy morn,

I know not whence possessed thee! We had then

Remained still happy!"

Eve retorts:

"Hadst thou been firm and fixed in thy dissent,

Neither had I transgressed, nor thou with me."

Then Adam:

"What could I more?

I warned thee, I admonished thee, foretold

The danger, and the lurking enemy

That lay in wait; beyond this had been force."

Thus they in mutual accusation spent

The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemning;

And of their vain contest appeared no end.

_X.--Sin and Death Triumph_

The Angels left on guard now slowly return from Paradise to Heaven

to report their failure, but are reminded by God that it was

ordained; and the Son is sent down to judge the guilty pair, after

hearing their excuses, and to punish them with the curses of toil

and death. Meantime Sin and Death "snuff the smell of mortal change"

on Earth, and leaving Hell-gate "belching outrageous flame," erect

a broad road from Hell to Earth through Chaos, and as they come in

sight of the World meet Satan steering his way back as an angel,

"between the Centaur and the Scorpion." He makes Sin and Death his

plenipotentiaries on Earth, adjuring them first to make man their

thrall, and lastly kill; and as they pass to the evil work "the

blasted stars look wan." The return to Hell is received with loud

acclaim, which comes in the form of a hiss, and Satan and all his

hosts are turned into grovelling snakes. Adam, now in his repentance,

is sternly resentful against Eve, who becomes submissive, and both

pass from remorse to "sorrow unfeigned and humiliation meek."

_XI.--Repentance and the Doom_

The repentance of the pair is accepted by God, who sends down the

Archangel Michael, with a cohort of cherubim, to announce that death

will not come until time has been given for repentance, but Paradise

can no longer be their home. Whereupon Eve laments.

"O unexpected stroke, worse than of Death!

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? Thus leave

Thee, native soil? These happy walks and shades,

Fit haunt of gods, where I had hoped to spend

Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day

That must be mortal to us both? O flowers,

That never will in any other climate grow,

My early visitation and my last

At even, which I tied up with tender hand

From the first opening bud and gave ye names,

Who now shall rear ye to the Sun, or rank

Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?

... How shall we breathe in other air

Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits?"

The Angel reminds her:

"Thy going is not lonely; with thee goes

Thy husband; him to follow thou art bound.

Where he abides think there thy native soil."

Michael then ascending a hill with Adam shows him a vision of the

world's history, while Eve sleeps.

_XII.--Paradise Behind, the World Before_

The history is continued, with its promise of redemption, until Adam

exclaims:

"Full of doubt I stand,

Whether I should repent me now of sin

By me done and occasioned, or rejoice

Much more that much more good thereof shall spring--

To God more glory, more good-will to men."

Eve awakens from propitious dreams, it having been shown to her that--

"Though all by me is lost,

Such favour I unworthy am vouchsafed.

By me the Promised Seed shall all restore."

The time, however, has come when they must leave. A flaming sword,

"fierce as a comet," advances towards them before the bright array of

cherubim.

Whereat

In either hand the hastening angel caught

Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate

Led them direct, and down the cliff so fast

To the subjected plain--then disappeared.

They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld

Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,

Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate

With dreadful forces thronged and fiery arms.

Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;

The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.

They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,

Through Eden took their solitary way.

FOOTNOTES:

[AA] John Milton, the peer of Dante as one of the world's

master-poets, was born in Bread Street, London, on December 9, 1608,

the son of a well-to-do scrivener. Educated at St. Paul's School

and at Cambridge, he devoted himself from the first to poetry. The

"Ode on the Nativity" was written when the poet was twenty-one. His

productions till his thirtieth year were nearly all of a classical

caste--"L'Allegro," "Il Penseroso," "Comus," "Lycidas." Returning from

Continental travels in 1639, Milton became enmeshed in politics, and so

continued for twenty years, during which time he wrote much polemical

prose, including his "Areopagitica" (see Vol. XX, p. 257) and his

"Tractate on Education." After a spell of teaching and pamphleteering,

he served as Latin secretary to Oliver Cromwell, and was stricken with

blindness at the age of forty-four. Though poor by loss of office after

the Restoration, he was never in poverty. He died on November 8, 1674.

"Paradise Lost," planned in his youth, was actually begun in 1658,

finished in 1665, and published in 1667. The price arranged was £5

down and £5 more on each of three editions, of which Milton received

£10, and his widow £8, the rest being unpaid. In English literature

"Paradise Lost" stands alone as an effort of sheer imagination, and its

literary genius is as haunting as its conception is stupendous.

Paradise Regained[AB]

_I.--The Forty Days_

I, who erewhile the happy Garden sung

By one man's disobedience lost, now sing

Recovered Paradise to all mankind,

By one man's firm obedience fully tried

Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled

In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed,

And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness.

Having thus introduced his subject, the poet describes, on Scriptural

lines, the baptism of John, seen by Satan, "when roving still about

the world." The Fiend then "flies to his place" and "summons all his

mighty peers"--a gloomy consistory--warning them that the time seems

approaching when they "must bide the stroke of that long-threatened

wound," when "the woman's Seed shall bruise the serpent's head." They

agree that Satan shall return to earth and act as Tempter. In Heaven,

meantime, God tells the assembly of angels, addressing Gabriel, that

He will expose His Son to Satan, in order that the Son may "show him

worthy of His birth divine and high prediction." And the angelic choir

sings "Victory and triumph to the Son of God."

So they in Heaven their odes and vigils tuned.

Meanwhile the Son of God ...

Musing and much revolving in his breast

How best the mighty work he might begin

Of Saviour to mankind, and which way first

Publish his God-like office now mature,

One day forth walked alone, the Spirit leading,

And his deep thoughts, the better to converse

With solitude, till, far from track of men,

Thought following thought, and step by step led on,

He entered now the bordering desert wild.

Christ then, in meditation, tells reminiscently the story of His life.

Full forty days He passed ...

Nor tasted human food, nor hunger felt,

Till those days ended; hungered then at last

Among wild beasts. They at His sight grew mild,

Nor sleeping Him nor waking harmed; His walk

The fiery serpent fled and noxious worm;

The lion and fierce tiger glared aloof.

But now an aged man in rural weeds,

Following, as seemed, the quest of some stray ewe,

Or withered sticks to gather, which might serve

Against a winter's day, when winds blow keen,

To warm him wet returned from field at eve,

He saw approach.

This is Satan, and, entering into conversation adjures the Son--

"If thou be the Son of God, command

That out of these hard stones be made Thee bread,

So shalt Thou save Thyself, and us relieve

With food, whereof we wretched seldom taste."

Christ at once discerns who His tempter is and rebuffs him; and the

Fiend, "now undisguised," goes on to narrate his own history, arguing

that he is not a foe to mankind.

"They to me

Never did wrong or violence. By them

I lost not what I lost; rather by them

I gained what I have gained, and with them dwell

Co-partner in these regions of the world."

Christ, replying, attributes to Satan the evils of Idolatry and the

crafty oracles of heathendom, which have taken the place of the

"inward oracle in pious hearts," whereupon Satan, "bowing low his gray

dissimulation, disappeared."

_II.--The Temptation of the Body_

Meanwhile the disciples were gathered "close in a cottage low,"

wondering where Christ could be, and Mary with troubled thoughts,

rehearsed the story of His early life. Satan, returning to the council

of his fellow fiends, in "the middle region of thick air," reports

his failure, and that he has found in the Tempted "amplitude of mind

to greatest deeds." Belial advises that the temptation should be

continued by women "expert in amorous arts," but Satan rejects the

plan, and reminds Belial--

"Among the sons of men

How many have with a smile made small account

Of beauty and her lures. For beauty stands

In the admiration only of weak minds

Led captive: cease to admire and all her plumes

Fall flat.... We must try

His constancy with such as have more show

Of worth, of honour, glory, and popular praise."

With this aim Satan again betakes himself to the desert, where Christ,

now hungry, sleeps and dreams of food.

And now the herald lark

Left his ground-nest, high towering to descry

The morn's approach, and greet her with his song,

As lightly from his grassy couch uprose

Our Saviour, and found all was but a dream;

Fasting he went to sleep and fasting waked.

Up to a hill anon his steps he reared,

And in a bottom saw a pleasant grove,

With chant of tuneful birds resounding loud.

Thither He bent His way ...

When suddenly a man before Him stood,

Not rustic as before, but seemlier clad,

As one in city or court or palace bred.

Here Satan again tempts Him with a spread of savoury food, which Jesus

dismisses with the words:

"Thy pompous delicacies I contemn,

And count thy specious gifts no gifts, but guiles!"

The book closes with the offer of riches, which are rejected as "the

toil of fools."

_III.--The Temptation of Glory_

Finding his weak "arguing and fallacious drift" ineffectual, Satan

next appeals to ambition and suggests conquest; but is reminded that

conquerors

"Rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave

Peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote,

Made captive, yet deserving freedom more

Than those their conquerors, who leave behind

Nothing but ruin wheresoe'r they rove,

And all the flourishing works of peace destroy;

Then swell with pride and must be titled gods.

But if there be in glory aught of good,

It may by means far different be attained;

Without ambition, war, or violence,

By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,

By patience, temperance."

But Satan, sardonically, argues that God expects glory, nay, exacts it

from all, good and bad alike. To which Christ replies:

"Not glory as prime end,

But to show forth his goodness, and impart

His good communicable to every soul

Freely; of whom what could He less expect

Than glory and benediction--that is thanks--

The slightest, easiest, readiest recompense

From them who could return him nothing else."

But, argues Satan, it is the throne of David to which the Messiah is

ordained; why not begin that reign? Hitherto Christ has scarcely seen

the Galilean towns, but He shall "quit these rudiments" and survey

"the monarchies of the earth, their pomp and state." And thereupon he

carries Him to a mountain whence He can see "Assyria and her empire's

ancient bounds," and there suggests the deliverance of the Ten Tribes.

"Thou on the Throne of David in full glory,

From Egypt to Euphrates and beyond

Shalt reign, and Rome or Cæsar not need fear."

The answer is that these things must be left to God's "due time and

providence."

_IV.--The Last Temptation_

The Tempter now brings the Saviour round to the western side of the

mountain, and there Rome

An imperial city stood;

With towers and temples proudly elevate

On seven hills, with palaces adorned,

Porches and theatres, baths, aqueducts,

Statues and trophies, and triumphal arcs,

Gardens and groves. Queen of the Earth,

So far renowned, and with the spoils enriched

Of nations.

But this "grandeur and majestic show of luxury" has no effect on

Christ, who says:

"Know, when my season comes to sit

On David's throne, it shall be like a tree

Spreading and overshadowing all the earth;

Or as a stone that shall to pieces dash

All monarchies besides throughout the world,

And of my Kingdom there shall be no end."

The offer of the kingdoms of the world incurs the stern rebuke:

"Get thee behind me! Plain thou now appear'st

That Evil One, Satan, for ever damned."

Still the Fiend is not utterly abashed, but, arguing that "the

childhood shows the man as morning shows the day," and that Christ's

empire is one of mind, he, as a last temptation from the "specular

mount," shows Athens.

"There thou shalt hear and learn the secret power

Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit

By voice or hand, and various-measured verse.

To sage philosophy next lend thine ear,

From Heaven descended to the low-roofed house

Of Socrates."

Christ replies that whoever seeks true wisdom in the philosophies,

moralities and conjectures of men finds her not, and that the poetry

of Greece will not compare with "Hebrew songs and harps." It is the

prophets who teach most plainly

"What makes a nation happy, and keeps it so;

What ruins kingdoms, and lays cities flat?"

Finding all these temptations futile, Satan explodes:

"Since neither wealth nor honour, arms nor arts,

Kingdom nor empire pleases thee, nor aught

By me proposed in life contemplative

Or active, tended on by glory or fame;

What dost thou in this world? The wilderness

For thee is fittest place. I found thee there

And thither will return thee."

So he transports the passive Saviour back to his homeless solitude.

Our Saviour, meek, and with untroubled mind,

Hungry and cold betook himself to rest.

The Tempter watched, and soon with ugly dreams

Disturbed his sleep. And either tropic now

'Gan thunder, and both ends of Heaven; the clouds

From many a rift abortive poured

Fierce rain with lightning mixed; water with fire

In ruin reconciled. Ill wast Thou shrouded then,

O patient Son of God! Yet only stood'st

Unshaken! Nor yet staid the terror there.

Infernal ghosts of hellish furies round

Environed thee; some howled, some yelled, some shrieked,

Some bent at thee their fiery darts, while thou

Sat'st unappalled in calm and sinless peace.

Thus passed the night so foul, till morning fair

Came forth with pilgrim steps, in amice grey,

Who with her radiant finger stilled the roar

Of thunder, chased the clouds, and laid the winds,

And grisly spectres, which the Fiend had raised

To tempt the Son of God with terrors dire.

And now the sun with more effectual beams

Had cheered the face of earth, and dried the wet

From drooping plant, or dropping tree; the birds,

Who all things now beheld more fresh and green,

After a night of storm so ruinous,

Cleared up their choicest notes in bush and spray,

To 'gratulate the sweet return of morn.

Satan, in anger, begins the last temptation.

Feigning to doubt whether the Saviour is the Son of God, he snatches

him up and carries him to where, in

Fair Jerusalem, the Holy City lifted high her towers

And higher yet the glorious Temple reared

Her pile; far off appearing like a mount

Of alabaster, topp'd with golden spires:

There on the highest pinnacle he set

The Son of God, and added thus in scorn:

"There stand if thou wilt stand; to stand upright will task thy skill."

"Tempt not the Lord thy God," He said, and stood.

But Satan, smitten with amazement, fell,

And to his crew, that sat consulting, brought

Ruin, and desperation, and dismay.

So Satan fell; and straight a fiery globe,

Of angels, on full sail of wing flew nigh,

Who on their plumy vans received Him soft,

From His uneasy station, and upbore

As on a floating couch through the blithe air;

Then in a flowery valley set Him down

On a green bank, and set before Him, spread,

A table of celestial food....

....And as He fed, angelic quires

Sang Heavenly anthems of His victory

Over temptation and the Tempter proud.

"Now Thou hast avenged

Supplanted Adam, and, by vanquishing

Temptation, hast regained lost Paradise."

Thus they, the Son of God, our Saviour meek,

Sung victor, and from Heavenly feast refreshed,

Brought on His way with joy. He, unobserved,

Home to His mother's house private returned.

FOOTNOTES:

[AB] The origin of "Paradise Regained" has been told

authentically. It was suggested in 1665 by Ellwood the Quaker, who

sometimes acted as Milton's amanuensis, and it was finished and shown

to Ellwood in 1666, though not published till 1671. Neither in majesty

of conception or in charm of style can it compare with "Paradise

Lost," to which it is, as has been said, a codicil and not a sequel.

The Temptation, the reader feels, was but an incident in the life of

Christ and in the drama of the "ways of God to man," which "Paradise

Lost" introduced with such stupendous imaginative power. Much of the

poem is but a somewhat ambling paraphrase and expansion of Scriptural

narratives; but there are passages where Milton resumes his perfect

mastery of poetic form, under the inspiration that places him among the

selectest band of immortal singers.

Samson Agonistes[AC]

_Persons in the Drama_

SAMSON

MANOA, _the father of Samson_

DALILA, _his wife_

HURAPHA, _of Gath_

PUBLIC OFFICER

MESSENGER

_Chorus of Danites_

_The scene is placed before the prison in Gaza_.

SAMSON: A little onward send thy guiding hand

To these dark steps, a little further on;

For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade.

There I am wont to sit, when any chance

Relieves me from my task of servile toil.

Daily in the common prison else enjoined me,

Where I, a prisoner chained, scarce freely draw

The air, imprisoned also, close and damp,

Unwholesome draught. But here I feel amends

The breath of Heaven fresh blowing, pure and sweet,

With day-spring born; here leave me to respire.

This day a solemn feast the people hold

To Dagon, their sea-idol, and forbid

Laborious works. Hence, with leave

Retiring from the popular noise, I seek

This unfrequented place to find some ease--

Oh, wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold

Twice by an angel, if I must die

Betrayed, captive, and both my eyes put out,

Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze?

O worse than chains,

Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age!

Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct,

And all her various objects of delight

Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased.

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,

Irrevocably dark, total eclipse

Without all hope of day!

O first created beam, and thou great Word,

"Let there be light, and light was over all,"

Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree?

The Sun to me is dark

And silent as the Moon,

When she deserts the night,

Hid in her vacant inter-lunar cave.

CHORUS: This, this is he; softly a while;

Let us not break in upon him.

O change beyond report, thought, or belief!

See how he lies at random, carelessly diffused,

With languished head unpropt,

As one past hope, abandoned.

Which shall I fast bewail--

Thy bondage or lost sight,

Prison within prison

Inseparably dark?

Thou art become (O worst imprisonment!)

The dungeon of thyself;

To lowest pitch of abject fortune thou are fallen.

SAMSON: I hear the sound of words; their sense the air

Dissolves unjointed ere it reach my ear.

CHORUS: He speaks; let us draw nigh. Matchless in might,

The glory late of Israel, now the grief!

We come, thy friends and neighbours not unknown,

From Eshtaol and Zora's fruitful vale,

To visit or bewail thee.

SAMSON: Your coming, friends, revives me.

Tell me, friends,

Am I not sung and proverbed for a fool

In every street?

CHORUS: Wisest men

Have erred, and by bad women been deceived;

And shall again, pretend they ne'er so wise.

In seeking just occasion to provoke

The Philistine, thy country's enemy,

Thou never wast remiss, I bear thee witness.

But see! here comes thy reverend sire,

With careful step, locks white as down,

OLD MANOA: advise

Forthwith how thou ought'st to receive him.

MANOA: Brethren and men of Dan, if old respect,

As I suppose, towards your once gloried friend,

My son, now captive, hither hath informed

Your younger feet, while mine, cast back with age,

Came lagging after, say if he be here.

CHORUS: As signal now in low dejected state

As erst in highest, behold him where he lies.

MANOA: O miserable change! Is this the man,

That invincible Samson, far renowned,

The dread of Israel's foes?

SAMSON: Nothing of all these evils hath befallen me

But justly.

MANOA: True; but thou bear'st

Enough, and more, the burden of that fault;

Bitterly hast thou paid, and still art paying,

That rigid score. A worse thing yet remains;

This day the Philistines a popular feast

Here celebrate in Gaza, and proclaim

Great pomp, and sacrifice, and praises loud,

To Dagon, as their god who hath delivered

Thee, Samson, bound and blind, into their hands.

SAMSON: Father, I do acknowledge and confess

That I this honour, I this pomp, have brought

To Dagon, and advanced his praises high

Among the heathen round. The contest is now

'Twixt God and Dagon. Dagon hath presumed,

Me overthrown, to enter lists with God.

Dagon must stoop, and shall ere long receive

Such a discomfit as shall quite despoil him

Of all these boasted trophies won on me,

And with confusion blank his worshippers.

MANOA: But for thee what shall be done?

Thou must not in the meanwhile, here forgot,

Lie in this miserable, loathsome plight,

Neglected. I already have made way

To some Philistine lords, with whom to treat

About thy ransom.

SAMSON: Spare that proposal, father; let me here

As I deserve, pay on my punishment,

And expiate, if possible, my crime.

MANOA: Be penitent, and for thy fault contrite;

But act not in thy own affliction, son.

Repent the sin; but if the punishment

Thou canst avoid, self-preservation bids.

SAMSON: Nature within me seems

In all her functions weary of herself;

My race of glory run, and race of shame,

And I shall shortly be with them that rest.

MANOA: I, however,

Must not omit a father's timely care

To prosecute the means of thy deliverance

By ransom, or how else.

CHORUS: But who is this? what thing of sea or land--

Female of sex it seems--

That, so bedecked, ornate, and gay,

Comes this way sailing?

Some rich Philistian matron she may seem;

And now at nearer view no other certain

Than Dalila, thy wife.

SAMSON: My wife! My traitress! Let her not come near me.

DALILA: With doubtful feet and wavering resolution

I came, still dreading thy displeasure, Samson.

SAMSON: Out, out, hyena! These are thy wonted arts,

And arts of every woman false like thee--

To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray;

Then, as repentant, to submit, beseech

A reconcilement, move with feigned remorse.

DALILA: Let me obtain forgiveness of thee, Samson,

I to the lords will intercede, not doubting

Their favourable ear, that I may fetch thee

From forth this loathsome prison-house, to abide

With me, where my redoubled love and care,

With nursing diligence, to me glad office,

May ever tend about thee to old age.

SAMSON: No, no; of my condition take no care;

It fits not; thou and I long since are twain;

Nor think me so unwary or accursed

To bring my feet again into the snare

Where once I have been caught.

DALILA: Let me approach at least, and touch thy hand.

SAMSON: Not for thy life, lest fierce remembrance wake

My sudden rage to tear thee joint by joint.

At distance I forgive thee; go with that;

Bewail thy falsehood, and the pious works

It hath brought forth to make thee memorable

Among illustrious women, faithful wives.

DALILA: I see thou art implacable, more deaf

To prayers than winds and seas. Yet winds to seas

Are reconciled at length, and sea to shore.

My name, perhaps, among the circumcised

In Dan, in Judah, and the bordering tribes

To all posterity may stand defamed.

But in my country, where I most desire,

I shall be named among the famousest

Of women, sung at solemn festivals,

Living and dead recorded, who to save

Her country from a fierce destroyer, chose

Above the faith of wedlock bands; my tomb

With odours visited and annual flowers.

CHORUS: She's gone--a manifest serpent by her sting--

Discovered in the end, till now concealed.

This idol's day hath been to thee no day of rest,

Labouring thy mind

More than the working day thy hands.

And yet, perhaps, more trouble is behind;

For I descry this way

Some other tending; in his hand

A sceptre or quaint staff he bears,

A public officer, and now at hand.

His message will be short and voluble.

OFFICER: Hebrews, the prisoner Samson here I seek.

CHORUS: His manacles remark him; there he sits.

OFFICER: Samson, to thee our lords thus bid me say.

This day to Dagon is a solemn feast,

With sacrifices, triumph, pomp, and games;

Thy strength they know surpassing human rate,

And now some public proof thereof require

To honour this great feast and great assembly.

Rise, therefore, with all speed, and come along,

Where I will see thee heartened and fresh clad,

To appear as fit before the illustrious lords.

SAMSON: Thou know'st I am an Hebrew; therefore tell them

Our law forbids at their religious rites

My presence; for that cause I cannot come.

OFFICER: This answer, be assured will not content them.

SAMSON: Return the way thou camest;

I will not come.

OFFICER: Regard thyself; this will offend them highly.

SAMSON: Can they think me so broken, so debased

With corporal servitude, that my mind ever

Will condescend to such absurd commands?

Joined with extreme contempt! I will not come.

OFFICER: I am sorry what this stoutness will produce.

CHORUS: He's gone, and who knows how he may report

Thy words by adding fuel to the flames.

Expect another message more imperious.

SAMSON: Shall I abuse this consecrated gift

Of strength, again returning with my hair,

After my great transgression!--so requite

Favour renewed, and add a greater sin

By prostituting holy things to idols.

CHORUS: Where the heart joins not, outward acts defile not.

SAMSON: Be of good courage; I begin to feel

Some rousing motions in me, which dispose

To something extraordinary my thoughts.

I with this messenger will go along--

If there be aught of presage in the mind,

This day will be remarkable in my life

By some great act, or of my days the last.

CHORUS: In time thou hast resolved: the man returns.

OFFICER: Samson, this second message from our lords

To thee I am bid say: Art thou our slave,

And dar'st thou, at our sending and command,

Dispute thy coming? Come without delay;

Or we shall find such engines to assail

And hamper thee, as thou shalt come of force,

Though thou wert firmlier fastened than a rock.

SAMSON: Because they shall not trail me through their streets

Like a wild beast, I am content to go.

OFFICER: I praise thy resolution. Doff these links:

By this compliance thou wilt win the lords

To favour, and perhaps to set thee free.

SAMSON: Brethren, farewell. Your company along

I will not wish, lest it perhaps offend them

To see me girt with friends.

Happen what may, of me expect to hear

Nothing dishonourable, impure, unworthy

Our God, our Law, my nation, or myself.

CHORUS: Go, and the Holy One

Of Israel be thy guide.

MANOA: Peace with you, brethren! My inducement hither

Was not at present here to find my son.

By order of the lords new parted hence

To come and play before them at their feast.

I heard all as I came; I had no will,

Lest I should see him forced to things unseemly.

But that which moved my coming now was chiefly

To give ye part with me what hope I have

With good success to work his liberty.

CHORUS: That hope would much rejoice us to partake

With thee.

MANOA: What noise or shout was that? It tore the sky.

CHORUS: Doubtless the people shouting to behold

Their once great dread, captive and blind before them,

Or at some proof of strength, before them shown.

MANOA: His ransom, if my whole inheritance

May compass it, shall willingly be paid

And numbered down. Much rather I shall choose

To live the poorest in my tribe, than richest,

And he in that calamitous prison left.

No, I am fixed not to part hence without him.

For his redemption all my patrimony,

If need be, I am ready to forego

And quit. Not wanting him, I shall want nothing.

It shall be my delight to tend his eyes,

And view him sitting in his house, ennobled

With all those high exploits by him achieved.

CHORUS: Thy hopes are not ill founded, nor seem vain,

Of his delivery.

MANOA: I know your friendly minds, and--O what noise!

Mercy of Heaven! What hideous noise was that

Horribly loud, unlike the former shout.

CHORUS: Noise call you it, or universal groan,

As if the whole inhabitation perished?

Blood, death, and deathful deeds, are in that noise,

Ruin, destruction at the utmost point.

MANOA: Of ruin indeed methought I heard the noise.

Oh! it continues; the have slain my son.

CHORUS: Thy son is rather slaying them; that outcry

From slaughter of one foe could not ascend.

MANOA: Some dismal accident it needs must be.

What shall we do--stay here, or run and see?

CHORUS: Best keep together here, lest, running thither,

We unawares run into danger's mouth.

This evil on the Philistines is fallen:

From whom could else a general cry be heard?

MANOA: A little stay will bring some notice hither.

CHORUS: I see one hither speeding--

An Hebrew, as I guess, and of our tribe.

MESSENGER: O, whither shall I run, or which way fly?

The sight of this so horrid spectacle,

Which erst my eyes beheld, and yet behold?

MANOA: The accident was loud, and here before thee

With rueful cry; yet what it was we know not.

Tell us the sum, the circumstance defer.

MESSENGER: Gaza yet stands; but all her sons are fallen,

All in a moment overwhelmed and fallen.

MANOA: Sad! but thou know'st to Israelites not saddest

The desolation of a hostile city.

MESSENGER: Feed on that first; there may in grief be surfeit.

MANOA: Relate by whom.

MESSENGER: By Samson.

MANOA: That still lessens

The sorrow and converts it nigh to joy.

MESSENGER: Ah! Manoa, I refrain too suddenly

To utter what will come at last too soon,

Lest evil tidings, with too rude eruption

Hitting thy aged ear, should pierce too deep.

MANOA: Suspense in news is torture; speak them out.

MESSENGER: Then take the worst in brief--Samson is dead.

MANOA: The worst indeed! O, all my hope's defeated

To free him hence! but Death, who sets all free,

Hath paid his ransom now and full discharge.

How died he?--death to life is crown or shame.

All by him fell, thou say'st; by whom fell he?

What glorious hand gave Samson his death's wound?

MESSENGER: Unwounded of his enemies he fell.

MANOA: Wearied with slaughter, then, or how? Explain.

MESSENGER: By his own hands.

MANOA: Self-violence! What cause

Brought him so soon at variance with himself

Among his foes?

MESSENGER: Inevitable cause--

At once both to destroy and be destroyed.

The edifice, where all were met to see him,

Upon their heads and on his own he pulled.

The building was a spacious theatre,

Half round on two main pillars vaulted high,

With seats where all the lords, and each degree

Of sort, might sit in order to behold.

Immediately

Was Samson as a public servant brought,

In their state livery clad.

At sight of him the people with a shout

Rifted the air, clamoring their god with praise,

Who had made their dreadful enemy their thrall.

He patient, but undaunted, where they led him,

Came to the place; and what was set before him,

Which without help of eye might be assayed,

To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performed

All with incredible, stupendous force,

None daring to appear antagonist

At length, for intermission sake, they led him

Between the pillars; he his guide requested,

As over-tired, to let him lean awhile

With both his arms on those two massy pillars,

That to the arched roof gave main support.

He unsuspicious led him; which when Samson

Felt in his arms, with head awhile inclined,

And eyes fast fixed, he stood, as one who prayed,

Or some great matter in his mind revolved.

At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud,

"Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed

I have performed, as reason was, obeying,

Not without wonder or delight beheld;

Now, of my own accord, such other trial

I mean to show you of my strength yet greater

As with amaze shall strike all who behold."

This uttered, straightening all his nerves, he bowed.

As with the force of winds and waters pent

When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars

With horrible convulsions to and fro

He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew

The whole roof after them with burst of thunder

Upon the heads of all who sat beneath,

Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests,

Their choice nobility and flower, not only

Of this, but each Philistian city round,

Met from all parts to solemnise this feast.

Samson, with these immixed, inevitably

Pulled down the same destruction on himself;

The vulgar only scaped, who stood without.

MANOA: Samson hath quit himself

Like Samson, and heroically hath finished

A life heroic.

Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail

Or knock the breast; no weakness, no contempt,

Dispraise or blame; nothing but well and fair,

And what may quiet us in a death so noble.

Let us go find the body where it lies.

I, with what speed the while

Will send for all my kindred, all my friends,

To fetch him hence, and solemnly attend,

With silent obsequy and funeral train,

Home to his father's house. There will I build him

A monument, and plant it round with shade

Of laurel evergreen and branching palm,

With all his trophies hung, and acts enrolled

In copious legend, or sweet lyric song.

Thither shall all the valiant youth resort,

And from his memory inflame their breasts

To matchless valour and adventures high.

FOOTNOTES:

[AC] "Samson Agonistes" (that is, "Samson the Athlete, or

Wrestler"), Milton's tragedy, cast in a classical mould, was composed

after "Paradise Regained" was written, and after "Paradise Lost" was

published. It was issued in 1671. No reader with knowledge can avoid

associating the poem in a personal way with Milton, who, like Samson,

was blind, living in the midst of enemies, and to some extent deserted;

and, like him too, did not lose heart on behalf of the life's cause

which, unlike Samson, he had never betrayed. As becomes a drama, it

has more vigorously sustained movement than any of Milton's works. The

familiar story is skilfully developed and relieved, and the formality

of the style does not detract from the pity and beauty, while it adds

to the dignity of the work.

MOLIÈRE[AD]

The Doctor in Spite of Himself

_Persons in the Play_

SGANARELLE

MARTINE, _Sganarelle's wife_

LUCAS

JACQUELINE, _Lucas's wife, and nurse at M. Géronte's_

GÉRONTE

LUCINDE, _Géronte's daughter_

LÉANDRE, _her lover_

VALÈRE, _Géronte's attendant_

ACT I

Just when the day has been fixed for the marriage of Lucinde, daughter

of M. Géronte, she suddenly becomes dumb, and no doctors are found

skillful enough to cure her. One day Valère, M. Géronte's attendant,

and Lucas, the nurse, are scouring the country in search of someone

able to restore their young mistress's speech, when they fell in with

Martine, the wife of Sganarelle, a bibulous faggot-binder. Sganarelle,

who has served a famous doctor for ten years, has just been beating

his wife, and she, in revenge, hearing the kind of person they are

looking for, strongly recommends her husband to them as an eccentric

doctor who has performed wonderful and almost incredible cures, but

who always disclaims his profession, and will never practice it until

he has been well cudgelled. Lucas and Valère accordingly go in quest

of Sganarelle, and, having found him, express their desire of availing

themselves of his services as doctor. At first the faggot-binder

vehemently denies that he is a doctor, but at last--thanks to the use

of the persuasion recommended by Martine--he confesses to a knowledge

of the physician's art, is induced to undertake the cure of Mlle.

Lucinde, and, on being introduced at M. Géronte's house, gives proof

of his eccentricity as a doctor by cudgelling the master and embracing

the nurse.

[_Enter_ LUCINDE, VALÈRE, GÉRONTE, LUCAS, Sganarelle,

_and_ JACQUELINE.

SGANARELLE: Is this the patient?

GÉRONTE: Yes. I have but one daughter; I should

feel inexpressible grief were she to die.

SGANARELLE: Don't let her do anything of the kind.

She must not die without a doctor's prescription.

GÉRONTE: You have made her laugh, monsieur.

SGANARELLE: It is the best symptom in the world

when the doctor makes his patient laugh. What sort

of pain do you feel?

LUCINDE (_replies by signs, putting her hand to her

mouth, to her head, and under her chin_): Ha, hi, ho, ha!

SGANARELLE (_imitating her_): Ha, hi, ho, ha! I don't

understand you.

GÉRONTE: That is what her complaint is, monsieur.

She became dumb, without our being able to find out the

cause. It is this accident which has made us put off the

marriage. The man she is going to marry wishes to wait

till she gets better.

SGANARELLE: Who is the fool that does not want his

wife to be dumb? Would to heaven that mine had that

complaint! I would take good care she did not recover

her speech.

GÉRONTE: Well, monsieur, I beg of you to take all

possible pains to cure her of this illness.

SGANARELLE (_to the patient_): Let me feel your pulse.

This tells me your daughter is dumb.

GÉRONTE: Yes, monsieur, that is just what her illness

is; you have found it out the very first time.

SGANARELLE: We great doctors, we know things at once.

An ignorant person would have been puzzled, and would

have said to you: "It is this, it is that." But I

was right the very first time. I tell you your daughter

is dumb.

GÉRONTE: But I should be very pleased if you could

tell me how this

happened.

SGANARELLE: It is because she has lost her speech.

GÉRONTE: But, please, what was the cause of the loss

of speech?

SGANARELLE: All our best authorities will tell you that

it is an impediment in the action of her tongue.

GÉRONTE: But, nevertheless, let us have your opinion on

this impediment in the action of her tongue.

SGANARELLE: I hold that this impediment in the

action of her tongue is caused by certain humours,

which among us learned men are called peccant humours.

For as the vapours formed by the exhalations of the

influences which arise in the region of complaints,

coming--so to speak--to--Do you know Latin?

GÉRONTE: In no sort of way.

SGANARELLE (_rising in astonishment_): You don't know Latin?

GÉRONTE: No.

SGANARELLE (_assuming various amusing attitudes_):

_Singulariter, nominativo hæc musa_, "the muse," _bonus_,

_bona, bonum, Deus sanctus, estne oratio latenas?

Quare_? "Why?" _Luia substantivo et adjectivum

concordat in generi, numerum, et casus_.

GÉRONTE: Oh! Why did I not study?

JACQUELINE: What a clever man he is!

SGANARELLE: Thus these vapours of which I speak

passing from the left side, where the liver is, to the right

side where the heart is, it happens that the lungs, which

we call in Latin _armyan_, having communication with the

brain, which in Greek we name _nasmus_, by means of the

_vena cava_, which we call in Hebrew _cubile_, in their way

meet the said vapours, which fill the ventricles of the

omoplata; and as the said vapours--be sure you understand

this argument, I beg you--and as these said vapours have

a certain malignancy--listen carefully to this, I pray you.

GÉRONTE: Yes.

SGANARELLE: Are gifted with a certain malignancy

which is caused--please pay attention----

GÉRONTE: I am doing so.

SGANARELLE: Which is caused by the acridity of the

humour engendered in the concavity of the diaphragm, it

happens that these vapours--_Ossabundus, nequezs, nequer,

potarinum, quipsa milus_. That is just what makes your

daughter dumb.

GÉRONTE: No one, doubtless, could argue better.

There is but one thing that puzzles me. It seems to me

that you place the heart and liver differently from where

they are; the heart is on the left side, and the liver on

the right.

SGANARELLE: Yes, that was so formerly; but we have

changed all that, and nowadays we practise medicine by

an entirely new method.

GÉRONTE: I did not know that. I must ask you to

pardon my ignorance.

SGANARELLE: There is no harm done. You are not

obliged to be as clever as we are.

GÉRONTE: Certainly not. But what do you think,

monsieur, ought to be done for this complaint?

SGANARELLE: My advice is that she should be put to

bed, and, for a remedy, you must see that she takes plenty

of bread soaked in wine.

GÉRONTE: Why so, monsieur?

SGANARELLE: Because in bread and wine mixed together

there is a sympathetic virtue which causes speech.

Don't you know that they give nothing else to parrots,

and that they learn to speak by being fed on this diet?

GÉRONTE: That is true. What a great man you are!

Quick, bring plenty of bread and wine.

SGANARELLE: I shall come back at night to see how

she is getting on.

GÉRONTE: Just wait a moment, please.

SGANARELLE: What do you want?

GÉRONTE: To give you your fee, monsieur.

SGANARELLE (_holding out his hand from under his

gown, while Géronte opens his purse_): I shall not take it,

monsieur.

GÉRONTE: I beseech you.

SGANARELLE: You are jesting.

GÉRONTE: That is settled.

SGANARELLE: I will not.

GÉRONTE: What!

SGANARELLE: I don't practise for money.

GÉRONTE: I am sure you don't.

SGANARELLE (_after having taken the money_): Is it

good weight?

GÉRONTE: Yes, monsieur.

SGANARELLE: I am not a mercenary doctor.

GÉRONTE: I know that.

SGANARELLE: Self-interest is not my motive.

GÉRONTE: I never for a moment thought it was.

[_Exit_.

ACT II

Léandre, between whom and Lucinde a mutual attachment subsists, has

an interview with Sganarelle, at which he implores the latter's

assistance to obtain a meeting with his mistress, and tells him that

her dumbness is a mere trick--a sham illness which she has feigned

to free herself from a distasteful marriage into which her father

wants to hurry her. In consideration of a purse of gold which Léandre

gives him, Sganarelle introduces the young lover into M. Géronte's

house as his apothecary, and when Léandre asks whether it is not

necessary to know five or six long medical words with which to lard

his conversation, ridicules the notion, and says that a medical dress

is quite sufficient disguise. "I am resolved to stick to physic all my

life," says Sganarelle. "I find that it is the best line of all; for

whatever we do, right or wrong, we are paid, all the same. Blunders

make no odds to us; we cut away the material we have to work with as

we choose. A shoemaker, in making a pair of shoes, cannot spoil a

scrap of leather without having to pay for it; but in this business we

can spoil a man without its costing us a cent. The mistakes are never

put down to our account; it is always the fault of the fellow who

dies."

[_Enter_ JACQUELINE, LUCINDE, GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE _and_ SGANARELLE.

JACQUELINE: Here's your daughter, monsieur. She

wishes to walk a bit.

SGANARELLE: It will do her good. Go to her, Mr.

Apothecary, and feel her pulse, and I will consult with

you presently about her malady. (_At this point he draws_

GÉRONTE _to one side of the stage, puts one arm on his

shoulders, places his hand under his chin, and makes him

turn towards him, whenever_ GÉRONTE _wants to see what

is going on between his daughter and the apothecary,

while he holds the following discourse with him to keep

his attention_:) Monsieur, it is a great and subtle question

among doctors whether women are easier to cure

than men. I beg you please listen to this. Some say

"no," some say "yes." I say both "yes" and "no";

for as the incongruity of the opaque humours which are

found in the natural temperament of women causes the

animal side always to struggle for mastery over the

spiritual, we find that the inequality of their opinions

depends on the oblique motion of the circle of the moon;

and as the sun----

LUCINDE: NO, I can never change my feelings.

GÉRONTE: Hark! My daughter speaks! O the great

virtue of physic! How deeply am I indebted to you,

monsieur, for this marvellous cure!

SGANARELLE (_walking about the stage, wiping his

forehead)_: It is a complaint that has given me much

trouble.

LUCINDE: Yes, father, I have recovered my speech;

but I have recovered it only to tell you that I will never

have any other husband than Léandre.

GÉRONTE: But----

LUCINDE: Nothing will shake the resolution I have

taken.

GÉRONTE: What----

LUCINDE: All your excellent reasons will be in vain.

GÉRONTE: If----

LUCINDE: All your talk will have no effect.

GÉRONTE: I----

LUCINDE: It is a subject on which I am quite determined.

GÉRONTE: But----

LUCINDE: No paternal power can force me to marry

against my will.

GÉRONTE: I have----

LUCINDE: You can make every effort you like.

GÉRONTE: It----

LUCINDE: My heart cannot submit to such a tyranny.

GÉRONTE: There----

LUCINDE: And I will sooner throw myself into a convent

than marry a man I don't love.

GÉRONTE: But----

LUCINDE (_speaking in deafening tone of voice_): It

is no use. You waste your time. I will not do anything

of the kind. I am resolved.

GÉRONTE: Ah! What a wildness of speech! I beg

you, monsieur, to make her dumb again.

SGANARELLE: That is impossible. All that I can do

for you is to make you deaf, if you like.

GÉRONTE: You shall marry Horace this very evening.

LUCINDE: I will sooner marry death.

SGANARELLE: Let me take this disease in hand. It

is a complaint that has got hold of her, and I know the

remedy to apply.

GÉRONTE: Is it possible that you can cure this mental

malady also?

SGANARELLE: Yes; let me manage it. I have remedies

for everything, and our apothecary is the man for

this cure. (_He calls the apothecary, and speaks to him_.)

You see that the passion she has for this Léandre is quite

against the wishes of her father, and that it is necessary

to find a prompt remedy for the evil, which will only

become worse by delay. For my part, I see but one

remedy, a dose of purgative flight suitably mixed with

two drachms of matrimony in pills. Go and take a little

turn in the garden with her to prepare the humours,

while I talk here with her father; but, above all, lose

no time. Apply the remedy at once--apply the specific

remedy.

[_Exeunt_ LÉANDRE _and_ LUCINDE. _Enter_ LUCAS _and_

MARTINE.

LUCAS: Your daughter has run away with Léandre.

He was the apothecary, and this is the doctor who has

performed the operation.

GÉRONTE: Quick, fetch the police, and prevent him

from going off! Oh, traitor, I will have you punished

by law.

LUCAS: You shall hang for this, doctor! Don't stir a

step from here!

[_Re-enter_ LÉANDRE _and_ LUCINDE.

LÉANDRE: Monsieur, I appear before you as Léandre,

and to restore Lucinde to your authority. We intended

to go off and to get married, but this undertaking has

given place to a more honourable proceeding. It is only

from your hands that I will receive Lucinde. I have

to tell you, monsieur, that I have just received letters

from which I learn that my uncle is dead, and that I am

the heir to all his property.

GÉRONTE: Monsieur, your virtue merits every consideration,

and I give you my daughter with the greatest

pleasure in the world.

SGANARELLE: Physic has had a narrow escape.

MARTINE: Since you are not going to be hanged, you

may thank me for making you a doctor. It was I who

gained you that honour.

SGANARELLE: I forgive you the beating because of the

dignity to which you have raised me, but be prepared

henceforth to show great respect towards a man of my

consequence; and remember that a doctor's anger is

more to be feared than folk imagine.

(MOLIÈRE: _Continued in Vol. XVIII_)

_Printed in the United States of America_

FOOTNOTES:

[AD] Molière, whose real name was Jean Baptiste Poquelin, the

name Molière not having been assumed until he had commenced authorship,

was born at Paris, January 15, 1622. Almost nothing is known of his

early life, except that in his fourteenth year he was sent to the

Jesuit Collège de Clermont, in Paris, and that later he studied law. In

1645 he suddenly appeared upon the stage as a member of a company of

strolling players, and later, through the recommendation of influential

friends, his company gained permission to act before the King. His

comedies soon placed him in the front rank of French dramatists, and he

is now regarded as perhaps the greatest of all comic dramatists. Of all

the learned classes that fell under Molière's merciless lash, none came

so completely as the profession of medicine. This is especially the

case in "The Doctor in Spite of Himself" ("Lie Médecin Malgré Lui"),

which appeared in June, 1666, and in which Molière himself played the

role of Sganarelle.

The piece was originally acted with the "Misanthrope," but its

immediate and pronounced success justified its being put on the bill

alone. Both in conception and in motive the "Doctor" is frankly

farcical, yet the lines abound in delicious satire, and on occasions

melt from sheer buffoonery into graceful comedy. Molière died on

February 17, 1673.