What in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support, That to the height of this great argument I may assert eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to men. 1 Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 22.
Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to light.
For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
Eloquence the soul, song charms the senses.
Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.
Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
Knowledge forbidden? Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord Envy them that? Can it be sin to know, Can it be death? And do they only stand By ignorance? Is that their happy state, The proof of their obedience and their faith? O fair foundation laid whereon to build Their ruin!
And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
The never-ending flight Of future days.
The strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.
Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy.
On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.
Hail, wedded love, mysterious law; true source of human happiness.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
Me miserable! Which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep,
Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost;Evil,be thou my good.
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.
Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
Into this wild abyss, The womb of Nature and perhaps her grave.
Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
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