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. [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.
OOTNOTES:
[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