Lucif. Strength may return.

Asm. Already of thy virtue I partake, Erected by thy voice.

Lucif. See on the lake Our troops, like scattered leaves in autumn, lie; First let us raise ourselves, and seek the dry, Perhaps more easy dwelling.

Asm. From the beach Thy well-known voice the sleeping gods will reach, And wake the immortal sense, which thunder's noise Had quelled, and lightning deep had driven within them.

Lucif. With wings expanded wide, ourselves we'll rear, And fly incumbent on the dusky air.— Hell, thy new lord receive! Heaven cannot envy me an empire here. [Both fly to dry Land.

Asm. Thus far we have prevailed; if that be gain, Which is but change of place, not change of pain. Now summon we the rest.

Lucif. Dominions, Powers, ye chiefs of heaven's bright host, (Of heaven, once your's; but now in battle lost) Wake from your slumber! Are your beds of down? Sleep you so easy there? Or fear the frown Of him who threw you hence, and joys to see Your abject state confess his victory? Rise, rise, ere from his battlements he view Your prostrate postures, and his bolts renew, To strike you deeper down.

Asm. They wake, they hear, Shake off their slumber first, and next their fear; And only for the appointed signal stay.

Lucif. Rise from the flood, and hither wing your way.

Mol. [From the Lake.] Thine to command; our part is to obey. [The rest of the Devils rise up, and fly to the Land.

Lucif. So, now we are ourselves again an host, Fit to tempt fate, once more, for what we lost; To o'erleap the etherial fence, or if so high We cannot climb, to undermine his sky, And blow him up, who justly rules us now, Because more strong: Should he be forced to bow. The right were ours again: 'Tis just to win The highest place; to attempt, and fail, is sin.

Mol. Changed as we are, we're yet from homage free; We have, by hell, at least gained liberty: That's worth our fall; thus low though we are driven, Better to rule in hell, than serve in heaven.

Lucif. There spoke the better half of Lucifer!

Asm. 'Tis fit in frequent senate we confer, And then determine how to steer our course; To wage new war by fraud, or open force. The doom's now past; submission were in vain.

Mol. And were it not, such baseness I disdain; I would not stoop, to purchase all above, And should contemn a power, whom prayer could move, As one unworthy to have conquered me.

Beelzebub. Moloch, in that all are resolved, like thee. The means are unproposed; but 'tis not fit Our dark divan in public view should sit; Or what we plot against the Thunderer, The ignoble crowd of vulgar devils hear.

Luci. A golden palace let be raised on high; To imitate? No, to outshine the sky! All mines are ours, and gold above the rest: Let this be done; and quick as 'twas exprest.

A Palace rises, where sit, as in council, LUCIFER, ASMODAY, MOLOCH, BELIAL, BEELZEBUB, and SATAN.

Most high and mighty lords, who better fell From heaven, to rise states-general of hell, Nor yet repent, though ruined and undone, Our upper provinces already won, Such pride there is in souls created free, Such hate of universal monarchy; Speak, for we therefore meet: If peace you chuse, your suffrages declare; Or means propound, to carry on the war.

Mol. My sentence is for war; that open too: Unskilled in stratagems, plain force I know: Treaties are vain to losers; nor would we, Should heaven grant peace, submit to sovereignty. We can no caution give we will adore; And he above is warned to trust no more. What then remains but battle?

Satan. I agree With this brave vote; and if in hell there be Ten more such spirits, heaven is our own again: We venture nothing, and may all obtain. Yet who can hope but well, since even success Makes foes secure, and makes our danger less? Seraph and cherub, careless of their charge, And wanton, in full ease now live at large; Unguarded leave the passes of the sky, And all dissolved in hallelujahs lie.

Mol. Grant that our hazardous attempt prove vain; We feel the worst, secured from greater pain: Perhaps we may provoke the conquering foe To make us nothing; yet, even then, we know, That not to be, is not to be in woe.

Belial. That knowledge which, as spirits, we obtain, Is to be valued in the midst of pain: Annihilation were to lose heaven more; We are not quite exiled where thought can soar. Then cease from arms; Tempt him not farther to pursue his blow, And be content to bear those pains we know. If what we had, we could not keep, much less Can we regain what those above possess.

Beelzebub. Heaven sleeps not; from one wink a breach would be In the full circle of eternity. Long pains, with use of bearing, are half eased; Heaven, unprovoked, at length may be appeased. By war we cannot scape our wretched lot; And may, perhaps, not warring, be forgot.

Asm. Could we repent, or did not heaven well know Rebellion, once forgiven, would greater grow, I should, with Belial, chuse ignoble ease; But neither will the conqueror give peace, Nor yet so lost in this low state we are, As to despair of a well-managed war. Nor need we tempt those heights which angels keep, Who fear no force, or ambush, from the deep. What if we find some easier enterprise? There is a place,—if ancient prophecies And fame in heaven not err,—the blest abode Of some new race, called Man, a demi-god, Whom, near this time, the Almighty must create; He swore it, shook the heavens, and made it fate.

Lucif. I heard it; through all heaven the rumour ran, And much the talk of this intended Man: Of form divine; but less in excellence Than we; endued with reason lodged in sense: The soul pure fire, like ours, of equal force; But, pent in flesh, must issue by discourse: We see what is; to Man truth must be brought By sense, and drawn by a long chain of thought: By that faint light, to will and understand; For made less knowing, he's at more command.

Asm. Though heaven be shut, that world, if it be made, As nearest heaven, lies open to invade: Man therefore must be known, his strength, his state, And by what tenure he holds all of fate. Him let us then seduce, or overthrow; The first is easiest, and makes heaven his foe. Advise, if this attempt be worth our care.

Belial. Great is the advantage, great the hazards are. Some one (but who that task dares undertake?) Of this new creature must discovery make. Hell's brazen gates he first must break, then far Must wander through old night, and through the war Of antique chaos; and, when these are past, Meet heaven's out-guards, who scout upon the waste: At every station must be bid to stand, And forced to answer every strict demand.

Mol. This glorious enterprise— [Rising up.

Lucif. Rash angel, stay; [Rising, and laying his sceptre on MOLOCH'S head. That palm is mine, which none shall take away. Hot braves, like thee, may fight; but know not well To manage this, the last great stake of hell. Why am I ranked in state above the rest, If, while I stand of sovereign power possest, Another dares, in danger, farther go? Kings are not made for ease, and pageant-show. Who would be conqueror, must venture all: He merits not to rise, who dares not fall.

Asm. The praise, and danger, then, be all your own.

Lucif. On this foundation I erect my throne: Through brazen gates, vast chaos, and old night, I'll force my way, and upwards steer my flight; Discover this new world, and newer Man; Make him my footstep to mount heaven again: Then, in the clemency of upward air, We'll scour our spots, and the dire thunder scar, With all the remnants of the unlucky war, And once again grow bright, and once again grow fair.

Asm. Meantime the youth of hell strict guard may keep, And set their centries to the utmost deep, That no etherial parasite may come To spy our ills, and tell glad tales at home.

Lucif. Before yon brimstone lake thrice ebb and flow, (Alas, that we must measure time by woe!) I shall return, (my mind presages well) And outward lead the colonies of hell. Your care I much approve; what time remains, Seek to forget, at least divert your pains With sports and music, in the vales and fields, And whate'erjoy so sad a climate yields.

Betwixt the first Act and the second, while the Chiefs sit in the palace, may be expressed the sports of the Devils; as flights, and dancing in grotesque figures: And a song, expressing the change of their condition; what they enjoyed before, and how they fell bravely in battle, having deserved victory by their valour, and what they would have done if they had conquered.

ACT II.

SCENE 1.—A Champaign Country.

ADAM, as newly created, laid on a bed of moss and flowers, by a rock.

Adam. What am I? or from whence? For that I am [Rising. I know, because I think; but whence I came, Or how this frame of mine began to be, What other being can disclose to me? I move, I see, I speak, discourse, and know; Though now I am, I was not always so. Then that, from which I was, must be before, Whom, as my spring of being, I adore. How full of ornament is all I view, In all its parts! and seems as beautiful as new: O goodly-ordered work! O Power Divine, Of thee I am, and what I am is thine!

RAPHAEL descends to ADAM, in a cloud.

Raphael. First of mankind, made o'er the world to reign, Whose fruitful loins an unborn kind contain, Well hast thou reasoned: Of himself is none But that Eternal Infinite and One, Who never did begin, who ne'er can end; On Him all beings, as their source, depend. We first, who of his image most partake, Whom he all spirit, immortal, pure, did make; Man next; whose race, exalted, must supply The place of those, who, falling, lost the sky.

Adam. Bright minister of heaven, sent here below To me, who but begin to think and know; If such could fall from bliss, who knew and saw, By near admission, their creator's law, What hopes have I, from heaven remote so far, To keep those laws, unknowing when I err?

Raphael. Right reason's law to every human heart The Eternal, as his image, will impart: This teaches to adore heaven's Majesty; In prayer and praise does all devotion lie: So doing, thou and all thy race are blest.

Adam. Of every creeping thing, of bird, and beast, I see the kinds: In pairs distinct they go; The males their loves, their lovers females know: Thou nam'st a race which must proceed from me, Yet my whole species in myself I see: A barren sex, and single, of no use, But full of forms which I can ne'er produce.

Raphael. Think not the Power, who made thee thus, can find No way like theirs to propagate thy kind: Meantime, live happy in thyself alone; Like him who, single, fills the etherial throne. To study nature will thy time employ: Knowledge and innocence are perfect joy.

Adam. If solitude were best, the All-wise above Had made no creature for himself to love. I add not to the power he had before; Yet to make me, extends his goodness more. He would not be alone, who all things can; But peopled heaven with angels, earth with man.

Raphael. As man and angels to the Deity, So all inferior creatures are to thee. Heaven's greatness no society can bear; Servants he made, and those thou want'st not here.

Adam. Why did he reason in my soul implant, And speech, the effect of reason? To the mute, My speech is lost; my reason to the brute. Love and society more blessings bring To them, the slaves, than power to me, their king.

Raphael. Thus far to try thee; but to heaven 'twas known, It was not best for man to be alone; An equal, yet thy subject, is designed, For thy soft hours, and to unbend thy mind. Thy stronger soul shall her weak reason sway; And thou, through love, her beauty shalt obey; Thou shalt secure her helpless sex from harms, And she thy cares shall sweeten with her charms.

Adam. What more can heaven bestow, or man require?

Raphael. Yes, he can give beyond thy own desire. A mansion is provided thee, more fair Than this, and worthy heaven's peculiar care: Not framed of common earth, nor fruits, nor flowers Of vulgar growth, but like celestial bowers: The soil luxuriant, and the fruit divine, Where golden apples on green branches shine, And purple grapes dissolve into immortal wine; For noon-day's heat are closer arbours made, And for fresh evening air the opener glade. Ascend; and, as we go, More wonders thou shalt know.

Adam. And, as we go, let earth and heaven above Sound our great Maker's power, and greater love. [They ascend to soft music, and a song is sung.

The Scene changes, and represents, above, a Sun gloriously rising and moving orbicularly: at a distance, below, is the Moon; the part next the Sun enlightened, the other dark. A black Cloud comes whirling from the adverse part of the Heavens, bearing LUCIFER in it; at his nearer approach the body of the Sun is darkened.

Lucif. Am I become so monstrous, so disfigured, That nature cannot suffer my approach, Or look me in the face, but stands aghast; And that fair light which gilds this new-made orb, Shorn of his beams, shrinks in? accurst ambition! And thou, black empire of the nether world, How dearly have I bought you! But, 'tis past; I have already gone too far to stop, And must push on my dire revenge, in ruin Of this gay frame, and man, my upstart rival, In scorn of me created. Down, my pride, And all my swelling thoughts! I must forget Awhile I am a devil, and put on A smooth submissive face; else I in vain Have past through night and chaos, to discover Those envied skies again, which I have lost. But stay; far off I see a chariot driven, Flaming with beams, and in it Uriel, One of the seven, (I know his hated face) Who stands in presence of the eternal throne, And seems the regent of that glorious light.

From that part of the Heavens where the Sun appears, a Chariot is discovered drawn with white Horses, and in it URIEL, the Regent of the Sun. The Chariot moves swiftly towards LUCIFER, and at URIEL'S approach the Sun recovers his light.

Uriel. Spirit, who art thou, and from whence arrived? (For I remember not thy face in heaven) Or by command, or hither led by choice? Or wander'st thou within this lucid orb, And, strayed from those fair fields of light above, Amidst this new creation want'st a guide, To reconduct thy steps?

Lucifer. Bright Uriel, Chief of the seven! thou flaming minister, Who guard'st this new-created orb of light, (The world's eye that, and thou the eye of it) Thy favour and high office make thee known: An humble cherub I, and of less note, Yet bold, by thy permission, hither come, On high discoveries bent.

Uriel. Speak thy design.

Lucifer. Urged by renown of what I heard above, Divulged by angels nearest heaven's high King, Concerning this new world, I came to view (If worthy such a favour) and admire This last effect of our great Maker's power: Thence to my wondering fellows I shall turn, Full fraught with joyful tidings of these works, New matter of his praise, and of our songs.

Uriel. Thy business is not what deserves my blame, Nor thou thyself unwelcome; see, fair spirit, Below yon sphere (of matter not unlike it) There hangs the ball of earth and water mixt, Self-centered and unmoved.

Lucifer. But where dwells man?

Uriel. On yonder mount; thou see'st it fenced with rocks, And round the ascent a theatre of trees, A sylvan scene, which, rising by degrees, Leads up the eye below, nor gluts the sight With one full prospect, but invites by many, To view at last the whole: There his abode, Thither direct thy flight.

Lucifer. O blest be thou, Who to my low converse has lent thy ear, And favoured my request! Hail, and farewell. [Flies downward out of sight.

Uriel. Not unobserved thou goest, whoe'er thou art; Whether some spirit on holy purpose bent, Or some fallen angel from below broke loose, Who com'st, with envious eyes and curst intent, To view this world and its created lord: Here will I watch, and, while my orb rolls on, Pursue from hence thy much suspected flight, And, if disguised, pierce through with beams of light. [The Chariot drives forward out of sight.

SCENE II.—Paradise.

Trees cut out on each side, with several Fruits upon them; a Fountain in the midst: At the far end the prospect terminates in Walks.

Adam. If this be dreaming, let me never wake; But still the joys of that sweet sleep partake. Methought—but why do I my bliss delay, By thinking what I thought? Fair vision, stay; My better half, thou softer part of me, To whom I yield my boasted sovereignty, I seek myself, and find not, wanting thee. [Exit.

Enter EVE.

Eve. Tell me, ye hills and dales, and thou fair sun, Who shin'st above, what am I? Whence begun? Like myself, I see nothing: From each tree The feathered kind peep down to look on me; And beasts with up-cast eyes forsake their shade, And gaze, as if I were to be obeyed. Sure I am somewhat which they wish to be, And cannot; I myself am proud of me. What's here? another firmament below, [Looks into a fountain. Spread wide, and other trees that downward grow! And now a face peeps up, and now draws near, With smiling looks, as pleased to see me here. As I advance, so that advances too, And seems to imitate whate'er I do: When I begin to speak, the lips it moves; Streams drown the voice, or it would say, it loves. Yet when I would embrace, it will not stay: [Stoops down to embrace. Lost ere 'tis held; when nearest, far away. Ah, fair, yet false! ah, Being, formed to cheat, By seeming kindness, mixt with deep deceit!

Enter ADAM.

Adam. O virgin, heaven-begot, and born of man, Thou fairest of thy great Creator's works! Thee, goddess, thee the Eternal did ordain, His softer substitute on earth to reign; And, wheresoe'er thy happy footsteps tread, Nature in triumph after thee is led! Angels with pleasure view thy matchless grace, And love their Maker's image in thy face.

Eve. O, only like myself,(for nothing here So graceful, so majestic does appear:) Art thou the form my longing eyes did see, Loosed from thy fountain, and come out to me? Yet sure thou art not, nor thy face the same, Nor thy limbs moulded in so soft a frame; Thou look'st more sternly, dost more strongly move, And more of awe thou bear'st, and less of love. Yet pleased I hear thee, and above the rest, I, next myself, admire and love thee best.

Adam. Made to command, thus freely I obey, And at thy feet the whole creation lay. Pity that love thy beauty does beget; What more I shall desire, I know not yet. First let us locked in close embraces be, Thence I, perhaps, may teach myself and thee.

Eve. Somewhat forbids me, which I cannot name; For, ignorant of guilt, I fear not shame: But some restraining thought, I know not why, Tells me, you long should beg, I long deny.

Adam. In vain! my right to thee is sealed above; Look round and see where thou canst place thy love: All creatures else are much unworthy thee; They matched, and thou alone art left for me. If not to love, we both were made in vain; I my new empire would resign again, And change with my dumb slaves my nobler mind, Who, void of reason, more of pleasure find. Methinks, for me they beg; each silently Demands thy grace, and seems to watch thy eye.

Eve. I well foresee, whene'er thy suit I grant, That I my much-loved sovereignty shall want: Or like myself some other may be made, And her new beauty may thy heart invade.

Adam. Could heaven some greater master-piece devise, Set out with all the glories of the skies, That beauty yet in vain he should decree. Unless he made another heart for me.

Eve. With how much ease I, whom I love, believe! Giving myself, my want of worth I grieve. Here, my inviolable faith I plight, So, thou be my defence, I, thy delight. [Exeunt, he leading her.

ACT III.

SCENE I.—Paradise.

LUCIFER.

Lucif. Fair place! yet what is this to heaven, where I Sat next, so almost equalled the Most High? I doubted, measuring both, who was more strong; Then, willing to forget time since so long, Scarce thought I was created: Vain desire Of empire in my thoughts still shot me higher, To mount above his sacred head: Ah why, When he so kind, was so ungrateful I? He bounteously bestowed unenvied good On me: In arbitrary grace I stood: To acknowledge this, was all he did exact; Small tribute, where the will to pay was act. I mourn it now, unable to repent, As he, who knows my hatred to relent, Jealous of power once questioned: Hope, farewell; And with hope, fear; no depth below my hell Can be prepared: Then, Ill, be thou my good; And, vast destruction, be my envy's food. Thus I, with heaven, divided empire gain; Seducing man, I make his project vain, And in one hour destroy his six days pain. They come again, I must retire.

Enter ADAM and EVE.

Adam. Thus shall we live in perfect bliss, and see, Deathless ourselves, our numerous progeny. Thou young and beauteous, my desires to bless; I, still desiring, what I still possess.

Eve. Heaven, from whence love, our greatest blessing, came, Can give no more, but still to be the same. Thou more of pleasure may'st with me partake; I, more of pride, because thy bliss I make.

Adam. When to my arms thou brought'st thy virgin love, Fair angels sung our bridal hymn above: The Eternal, nodding, shook the firmament, And conscious nature gave her glad consent. Roses unbid, and every fragrant flower, Flew from their stalks, to strew thy nuptial bower: The furred and feathered kind the triumph did pursue, And fishes leaped above the streams, the passing pomp to view.

Eve. When your kind eyes looked languishing on mine, And wreathing arms did soft embraces join, A doubtful trembling seized me first all o'er; Then, wishes; and a warmth, unknown before: What followed was all ecstasy and trance; Immortal pleasures round my swimming eyes did dance, And speechless joys, in whose sweet tumult tost, I thought my breath and my new being lost.

Lucif. O death to hear! and a worse hell on earth! [Aside. What mad profusion on this clod-born birth! Abyss of joys, as if heaven meant to shew What, in base matters, such a hand could do: Or was his virtue spent, and he no more With angels could supply the exhausted store, Of which I swept the sky? And wanting subjects to his haughty will, On this mean work employed his trifling skill?

Eve. Blest in ourselves, all pleasures else abound; Without our care behold the unlaboured ground Bounteous of fruit; above our shady bowers The creeping jessamin thrusts her fragrant flowers; The myrtle, orange, and the blushing rose, With bending heaps so nigh their blooms disclose, Each seems to swell the flavour which the other blows: By these the peach, the guava, and the pine, And, creeping 'twixt them all, the mantling vine Does round their trunks her purple clusters twine.

Adam. All these are ours, all nature's excellence, Whose taste or smell can bless the feasted sense; One only fruit, in the mid garden placed,— The Tree of Knowledge,—is denied our taste; (Our proof of duty to our Maker's will:) Of disobedience, death's the threatened ill.

Eve. Death is some harm, which, though we know not yet, Since threatened, we must needs imagine great: And sure he merits it, who disobeys That one command, and one of so much ease.

Lucif. Must they then die, if they attempt to know? He sees they would rebel, and keeps them low. On this foundation I their ruin lay, Hope to know more shall tempt to disobey. I fell by this, and, since their strength is less, Why should not equal means give like success?

Adam. Come, my fair love, our morning's task we lose; Some labour even the easiest life would chuse: Ours is not great: the dangling boughs to crop, Whose too luxuriant growth our alleys stop, And choke the paths: This our delight requires, And heaven no more of daily work desires.

Eve. With thee to live, is paradise alone: Without the pleasure of thy sight, is none. I fear small progress will be made this day; So much our kisses will our task delay. [Exeunt.

Lucif. Why have not I, like these, a body too, Formed for the same delights which they pursue! I could (so variously my passions move) Enjoy, and blast her in the act of love. Unwillingly I hate such excellence; She wronged me not; but I revenge the offence, Through her, on heaven, whose thunder took away My birth-right skies! Live happy whilst you may, Blest pair; y'are not allowed another day! [Exit.

GABRIEL and ITHURIEL descend, carried on bright clouds, and flying cross each other, then light on the ground.

Gab. Ithuriel, since we two commissioned are From heaven the guardians of this new made pair, Each mind his charge; for, see, the night draws on, And rising mists pursue the setting sun.

Ithu. Blest is our lot to serve; our task we know: To watch, lest any, from the abyss below Broke loose, disturb their sleep with dreams; or worse, Assault their beings with superior force. [URIEL flies down from the Sun.

Uriel. Gabriel, if now the watch be set, prepare, With strictest guard, to shew thy utmost care. This morning came a spirit, fair he seemed, Whom, by his face, I some young cherub deemed; Of man he much inquired, and where his place, With shews of zeal to praise his Maker's grace; But I, with watchful eyes, observed his flight, And saw him on yon steepy mount alight; There, as he thought, unseen, he laid aside His borrowed mask, and re-assumed his pride: I marked his looks, averse to heaven and good; Dusky he grew, and long revolving stood On some deep, dark design; thence shot with haste, And o'er the mounds of Paradise he past: By his proud port, he seemed the Prince of Hell; And here he lurks in shades 'till night: Search well Each grove and thicket, pry in every shape, Lest, hid in some, the arch hypocrite escape.

Gab. If any spirit come to invade, or scout From hell, what earthy fence can keep him out? But rest secure of this, he shall be found, And taken, or proscribed this happy ground.

Ithu. Thou to the east, I westward walk the round, And meet we in the midst.

Uriel. Heaven your design Succeed; your charge requires you, and me mine. [URIEL flies forward out of sight; the two Angels exeunt severally.

A Night-piece of a pleasant Bower: ADAM and EVE asleep in it.

Enter LUCIFER.

Lucif. So, now they lie secure in love, and steep Their sated senses in full draughts of sleep. By what sure means can I their bliss invade? By violence? No, for they are immortal made. Their reason sleeps, but mimic fancy wakes, Supplies her part, and wild ideas takes, From words and things, ill sorted and misjoined; The anarchy of thought, and chaos of the mind: Hence dreams, confused and various, may arise; These will I set before the woman's eyes; The weaker she, and made my easier prey; Vain shows and pomp the softer sex betray. [LUCIFER sits down by EVE, and seems to whisper in her ear.

A Vision, where a tree rises loaden with fruit; four Spirits rise with it, and draw a canopy out of the tree; other Spirits dance about the tree in deformed shapes; after the dance an Angel enters, with a Woman, habited like EVE.

Angel. [Singing.] Look up, look up, and see, What heaven prepares for thee; Look up, and this fair fruit behold, Ruddy it smiles, and rich with streaks of gold. The loaded branches downward bend, Willing they stoop, and thy fair hand attend. Fair mother of mankind, make haste And bless, and bless thy senses with the taste.

Woman. No, 'tis forbidden; I In tasting it shall die.

Angel. Say, who enjoined this harsh command?

Woman. 'Twas heaven; and who can heaven withstand?

Angel. Why was it made so fair, why placed in sight? Heaven is too good to envy man's delight. See, we before thy face will try What thou so fearest, and will not die. [The Angel takes the fruit, and gives to the Spirits who danced; they immediately put off their deformed shapes, and appear Angels.

Angel. [Singing.] Behold what a change on a sudden is here! How glorious in beauty, how bright they appear! Prom spirits deformed they are deities made, Their pinions at pleasure the clouds can invade, [The Angel gives to the Woman, who eats. Till equal in honour they rise, With him who commands in the skies; Then taste without fear, and be happy and wise.

Woman. Ah, now I believe! such a pleasure I find, As enlightens my eyes, and enlivens my mind. [The Spirits, who are turned Angels, fly up when they have tasted. I only repent, I deferred my content.

Angel. Now wiser experience has taught you to prove, What a folly it is, Out of fear to shun bliss. To the joy that's forbidden we eagerly move; It inhances the price, and increases the love.

Chorus of both. To the joy, &c.

Two Angels descend; they take the Woman each by the hand, and fly up with her out of sight. The Angel who sung, and the Spirits who held the canopy, at the same instant sink down with the tree.

Enter GABRIEL and ITHURIEL to LUCIFER, who remains.

Gab. What art thou? speak thy name and thy intent. Why here alone? and on what errand sent? Not from above; no, thy wan looks betray Diminished light, and eyes unused to day.

Lucif. Not to know me, argues thyself unknown: Time was, when, shining next the imperial throne, I sat in awful state; while such as thou Did in the ignoble crowd at distance bow.

Gab. Think'st thou, vain spirit, thy glories are the same? And seest not sin obscures thy god-like frame? I know thee now by thy ungrateful pride, That shews me what thy faded looks did hide, Traitor to Him who made and set thee high, And fool, that Power which formed thee to defy.

Lucif. Go, slaves, return, and fawn in heaven again: Seek thanks from him whose quarrel you maintain. Vile wretches! of your servitude to boast; You basely keep the place I bravely lost.

Ithu. Freedom is choice of what we will and do: Then blame not servants, who are freely so. 'Tis base not to acknowledge what we owe.

Lucif. Thanks, howe'er due, proclaim subjection yet; I fought for power to quit the upbraided debt. Whoe'er expects our thanks, himself repays, And seems but little, who can want our praise.

Gab. What in us duty, shews not want in him; Blest in himself alone, To whom no praise we, by good deeds, can add; Nor can his glory suffer from our bad. Made for his use; yet he has formed us so, We, unconstrained, what he commands us do. So praise we him, and serve him freely best; Thus thou, by choice, art fallen, and we are blest.

Ithu. This, lest thou think thy plea, unanswered, good. Our question thou evad'st: How didst thou dare To break hell bounds, and near this human pair In nightly ambush lie?

Lucif. Lives there, who would not seek to force his way, From pain to ease, from darkness to the day? Should I, who found the means to 'scape, not dare To change my sulphurous smoke for upper air? When I, in fight, sustained your Thunderer, And heaven on me alone spent half his war, Think'st thou those wounds were light? Should I not seek The clemency of some more temperate clime, To purge my gloom; and, by the sun refined, Bask in his beams, and bleach me in the wind?

Gab. If pain to shun be all thy business here, Methinks thy fellows the same course should steer. Is their pain less, who yet behind thee stay? Or thou less hardy to endure than they?

Lucif. Nor one, nor t'other; but, as leaders ought, I ventured first alone, first danger sought, And first explored this new-created frame, Which filled our dusky regions with its fame; In hopes my fainting troops to settle here, And to defend against your Thunderer, This spot of earth; or nearer heaven repair, And forage to his gates from middle air.

Ithu. Fool! to believe thou any part canst gain From Him, who could'st not thy first ground maintain.

Gab. But whether that design, or one as vain, To attempt the lives of these, first drew thee here, Avoid the place, and never more appear Upon this hallowed earth; else prove our might.

Lucif. Not that I fear, do I decline the fight: You I disdain; let me with Him contend, On whom your limitary powers depend. More honour from the sender than the sent: Till then, I have accomplished my intent; And leave this place, which but augments my pain, Gazing to wish, yet hopeless to obtain. [Exit, they following him.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.—Paradise.

ADAM and EVE.

Adam. Strange was your dream, and full of sad portent; Avert it, heaven, if it from heaven were sent! Let on thy foes the dire presages fall; To us be good and easy, when we call.

Eve. Behold from far a breaking cloud appears, Which in it many winged warriors bears: Their glory shoots upon my aching sense; Thou, stronger, mayest endure the flood of light, And while in shades I chear my fainting sight, Encounter the descending Excellence. [Exit.

The Cloud descends with six Angels in it, and when it is near the ground, breaks, and on each side discovers six more: They descend out of the Cloud. RAPHAEL and GABRIEL discourse with ADAM, the rest stand at a distance.

Raph. First of mankind, that we from heaven are sent, Is from heaven's care thy ruin to prevent. The Apostate Angel has by night been here, And whispered through thy sleeping consort's ear Delusive dreams. Thus warned by us, beware, And guide her frailty by thy timely care.

Gab. These, as thy guards from outward harms, are sent; Ills from within thy reason must prevent.

Adam. Natives of heaven, who in compassion deign To want that place where joys immortal reign, In care of me; what praises can I pay, Descended in obedience; taught to obey?

Raph. Praise Him alone, who god-like formed thee free, With will unbounded as a deity; Who gave thee reason, as thy aid, to chuse Apparent good, and evil to refuse. Obedience is that good; this heaven exacts, And heaven, all-just, from man requires not acts, Which man wants power to do: Power then is given Of doing good, but not compelled by heaven.

Gab. Made good, that thou dost to thy Maker owe; But to thyself, if thou continuest so.

Adam. Freedom of will of all good things is best; But can it be by finite man possest? I know not how heaven can communicate What equals man to his Creator's state.

Raph. Heaven cannot give his boundless power away, But boundless liberty of choice he may; So orbs from the first Mover motion take, Yet each their proper revolutions make.

Adam. Grant heaven could once have given us liberty; Are we not bounded now, by firm decree, Since whatsoe'er is pre-ordained must be? Else heaven for man events might pre-ordain, And man's free will might make those orders vain.

Gab. The Eternal, when he did the world create, All other agents did necessitate: So what he ordered, they by nature do; Thus light things mount, and heavy downward go. Man only boasts an arbitrary state.

Adam. Yet causes their effects necessitate In willing agents: Where is freedom then? Or who can break the chain which limits men To act what is unchangeably forecast, Since the first cause gives motion to the last?

Raph. Heaven, by fore-knowing what will surely be, Does only, first, effects in causes see, And finds, but does not make, necessity. Creation is of power and will the effect, Foreknowledge only of his intellect. His prescience makes not, but supposes things; Infers necessity to be, not brings. Thus thou art not constrained to good or ill; Causes, which work the effect, force not the will.

Adam. The force unseen, and distant, I confess; But the long chain makes not the bondage less. Even man himself may to himself seem free; And think that choice, which is necessity.

Gab. And who but man should judge of man's free state?

Adam. I find that I can chuse to love or hate, Obey or disobey, do good or ill; Yet such a choice is but consent, not will. I can but chuse what he at first designed, For he, before that choice, my will confined.

Gab. Such impious fancies, where they entrance gain, Make heaven, all-pure, thy crimes to pre-ordain.

Adam. Far, far from me be banished such a thought, I argue only to be better taught. Can there be freedom, when what now seems free Was founded on some first necessity? For whate'er cause can move the will t'elect, Must be sufficient to produce the effect; And what's sufficient must effectual be: Then how is man, thus forced by causes, free?

Raph. Sufficient causes only work the effect, When necessary agents they respect. Such is not man; who, though the cause suffice, Yet often he his free assent denies.

Adam. What causes not, is not sufficient still.

Gab. Sufficient in itself; not in thy will.

Raph. When we see causes joined to effects at last, The chain but shews necessity that's past. That what's done is: (ridiculous proof of fate!) Tell me which part it does necessitate? I'll cruise the other; there I'll link the effect. O chain, which fools, to catch themselves, project!

Adam. Though no constraint from heaven, or causes, be, Heaven may prevent that ill he does foresee; And, not preventing, though he does not cause, He seems to will that men should break his laws.

Gab. Heaven may permit, but not to ill consent; For, hindering ill, he would all choice prevent. 'Twere to unmake, to take away the will.

Adam. Better constrained to good, than free to ill.

Raph. But what reward or punishment could be, If man to neither good nor ill were free? The eternal justice could decree no pain To him whose sins itself did first ordain; And good, compelled, could no reward exact: His power would shine in goodness, not thy act. Our task is done: Obey; and, in that choice, Thou shalt be blest, and angels shall rejoice. [RAPHAEL and GABRIEL fly up in the Cloud: the other Angels go off.

Adam. Hard state of life! since heaven foreknows my will, Why am I not tied up from doing ill? Why am I trusted with myself at large, When he's more able to sustain the charge? Since angels fell, whose strength was more than mine, 'Twould show more grace my frailty to confine. Fore-knowing the success, to leave me free, Excuses him, and yet supports not me.

To him EVE.

Eve. Behold, my heart's dear lord, how high the sun Is mounted, yet our labour not begun. The ground, unhid, gives more than we can ask; But work is pleasure when we chuse our task. Nature, not bounteous now, but lavish grows; Our paths with flowers she prodigally strows; With pain we lift up our entangled feet, While cross our walks the shooting branches meet.

Adam. Well has thy care advised; 'tis fit we haste; Nature's too kind, and follows us too fast; Leaves us no room her treasures to possess, But mocks our industry with her excess; And, wildly wanton, wears by night away The sign of all our labours done by day.

Eve. Since, then, the work's so great, the hands so few, This day let each a several task pursue. By thee, my hands to labour will not move, But, round thy neck, employ themselves in love. When thou would'st work, one tender touch, one smile (How can I hold?) will all thy task beguile.

Adam. So hard we are not to our labour tied, That smiles, and soft endearments are denied; Smiles, not allowed to beasts, from reason move, And are the privilege of human love: And if, sometimes, each others eyes we meet, Those little vacancies from toil are sweet. But you, by absence, would refresh your joys, Because perhaps my conversation cloys. Yet this, would prudence grant, I could permit.

Eve. What reason makes my small request unfit?

Adam. The fallen archangel, envious of our state, Pursues our beings with immortal hate; And, hopeless to prevail by open force, Seeks hid advantage to betray us worse; Which when asunder will not prove so hard; For both together are each other's guard.

Eve. Since he, by force, is hopeless to prevail, He can by fraud alone our minds assail: And to believe his wiles my truth can move, Is to misdoubt my reason, or my love.

Adam. Call it my care, and not mistrust of thee; Yet thou art weak, and full of art is he; Else how could he that host seduce to sin, Whose fall has left the heavenly nation thin?

Eve. I grant him armed with subtilty and hate; But why should we suspect our happy state? Is our perfection of so frail a make, As every plot can undermine or shake? Think better both of heaven, thyself, and me: Who always fears, at ease can never be. Poor state of bliss, where so much care is shown, As not to dare to trust ourselves alone!

Adam. Such is our state, as not exempt from fall; Yet firm, if reason to our aid we call: And that, in both, is stronger than in one; I would not,—why would'st thou, then, be alone?

Eve. Because, thus warned, I know myself secure, And long my little trial to endure, To approve my faith, thy needless fears remove, Gain thy esteem, and so deserve thy love. If all this shake not thy obdurate will, Know that, even present, I am absent still: And then what pleasure hop'st thou in my stay, When I'm constrained, and wish myself away?

Adam. Constraint does ill with love and beauty suit; I would persuade, but not be absolute. Better be much remiss, than too severe; If pleased in absence thou wilt still be here. Go; in thy native innocence proceed, And summon all thy reason at thy need.

Eve. My soul, my eyes delight! in this I find Thou lov'st; because to love is to be kind. [Embracing him. Seeking my trial, I am still on guard: Trials, less sought, would find us less prepared. Our foe's too proud the weaker to assail, Or doubles his dishonour if he fail. [Exit.

Adam. In love, what use of prudence can there be? More perfect I, and yet more powerful she. Blame me not, heaven; if thou love's power hast tried, What could be so unjust to be denied? One look of hers my resolution breaks; Reason itself turns folly when she speaks: And awed by her, whom it was made to sway, Flatters her power, and does its own betray. [Exit.

The middle part of the Garden is represented, where four Rivers meet: On the right side of the Scene is placed the Tree of Life; on the left, the Tree of Knowledge.

Enter LUCIFER.

Lucif. Methinks the beauties of this place should mourn; The immortal fruits and flowers, at my return, Should hang their withered heads; for sure my breath Is now more poisonous, and has gathered death Enough, to blast the whole creation's frame. Swoln with despite, with sorrow, and with shame, Thrice have I beat the wing, and rode with night About the world, behind the globe of light, To shun the watch of heaven; such care I use: (What pains will malice, raised like mine, refuse? Not the most abject form of brutes to take.) Hid in the spiry volumes of the snake, I lurked within the covert of a brake, Not yet descried. But see, the woman here Alone! beyond my hopes! no guardian near. Good omen that: I must retire unseen, And, with my borrowed shape, the work begin. [Retires.

Enter EVE.

Eve. Thus far, at least, with leave; nor can it be A sin to look on this celestial tree: I would not more; to touch, a crime may prove: Touching is a remoter taste in love. Death may be there, or poison in the smell, (If death in any thing so fair can dwell:) But heaven forbids: I could be satisfied, Were every tree but this, but this denied.

A Serpent enters on the Stage, and makes directly to the Tree of Knowledge, on which winding himself, he plucks an Apple; then descends, and carries it away.

Strange sight! did then our great Creator grant That privilege, which we, their masters, want, To these inferior brings? Or was it chance? And was he blest with bolder ignorance? I saw his curling crest the trunk enfold: The ruddy fruit, distinguished o'er with gold. And smiling in its native wealth, was torn From the rich bough, and then in triumph borne: The venturous victor marched unpunished hence, And seemed to boast his fortunate offence.

To her LUCIFER, in a human Shape.

Lucif. Hail, sovereign of this orb! formed to possess The world, and, with one look, all nature bless. Nature is thine; thou, empress, dost bestow On fruits, to blossom; and on flowers, to blow. They happy, yet insensible to boast Their bliss: More happy they who know thee most. Then happiest I, to human reason raised, And voice, with whose first accents thou art praised.

Eve. What art thou, or from whence? For on this ground, Beside my lord's, ne'er heard I human sound. Art thou some other Adam, formed from earth, And comest to claim an equal share, by birth, In this fair field? Or sprung of heavenly race?

Lucif. An humble native of this happy place, Thy vassal born, and late of lowest kind, Whom heaven neglecting made, and scarce designed, But threw me in, for number, to the rest, Below the mounting bird and grazing beast; By chance, not prudence, now superior grown.

Eve. To make thee such, what miracle was shown?

Lucif. Who would not tell what thou vouchsaf'st to hear? Sawest thou not late a speckled serpent rear His gilded spires to climb on yon' fair tree? Before this happy minute I was he.

Eve. Thou speak'st of wonders: Make thy story plain.

Lucif. Not wishing then, and thoughtless to obtain So great a bliss, but led by sense of good, Inborn to all, I sought my needful food: Then, on that heavenly tree my sight I cast; The colour urged my eye, the scent my taste. Not to detain thee long,—I took, did eat: Scarce had my palate touched the immortal meat, But, on a sudden, turned to what I am, God-like, and, next to thee, I fair became; Thought, spake, and reasoned; and, by reason found Thee, nature's queen, with all her graces crowned.

Eve. Happy thy lot; but far unlike is mine: Forbid to eat, not daring to repine. 'Twas heaven's command; and should we disobey, What raised thy being, ours must take away.

Lucif. Sure you mistake the precept, or the tree: Heaven cannot envious of his blessings be. Some chance-born plant he might forbid your use, As wild, or guilty of a deadly juice; Not this, whose colour, scent divine, and taste, Proclaim the thoughtful Maker not in haste.

Eve. By all these signs, too well I know the fruit, And dread a Power severe and absolute.

Lucif. Severe, indeed; even to injustice hard; If death, for knowing more, be your reward: Knowledge of good, is good, and therefore fit; And to know ill, is good, for shunning it.

Eve. What, but our good, could he design in this, Who gave us all, and placed in perfect bliss?

Lucif. Excuse my zeal, fair sovereign, in your cause, Which dares to tax his arbitrary laws. 'Tis all his aim to keep you blindly low, That servile fear from ignorance may flow: We scorn to worship whom too well we know. He knows, that, eating, you shall godlike be; As wise, as fit to be adored, as he. For his own interest he this law has given; Such beauty may raise factions in his heaven. By awing you he does possession keep, And is too wise to hazard partnership.

Eve. Alas, who dares dispute with him that right? The Power, which formed us, must be infinite.

Luc. Who told you how your form was first designed? The sun and earth produce, of every kind, Grass, flowers, and fruits; nay, living creatures too: Their mould was base; 'twas more refined in you: Where vital heat, in purer organs wrought, Produced a nobler kind raised up to thought; And that, perhaps, might his beginning be: Something was first; I question if 'twere he. But grant him first, yet still suppose him good, Not envying those he made, immortal food.

Eve. But death our disobedience must pursue.

Lucif. Behold, in me, what shall arrive to you. I tasted; yet I live: Nay, more; have got A state more perfect than my native lot. Nor fear this petty fault his wrath should raise: Heaven rather will your dauntless virtue praise, That sought, through threatened death, immortal good: Gods are immortal only by their food. Taste, and remove What difference does 'twixt them and you remain; As I gained reason, you shall godhead gain.

Eve. He eats, and lives, in knowledge greater grown: [Aside. Was death invented then for us alone? Is intellectual food to man denied, Which brutes have with so much advantage tried? Nor only tried themselves, but frankly, more, To me have offered their unenvied store?

Lucif. Behold, and all your needless doubts remove; View well this tree, (the queen of all the grove) How vast her hole, how wide her arms are spread, How high above the rest she shoots her head, Placed in the midst: would heaven his work disgrace, By planting poison in the happiest place?

Haste; you lose time and godhead by delay. [Plucking the fruit.

Eve. 'Tis done; I'll venture all, and disobey. [Looking about her. Perhaps, far hid in heaven, he does not spy, And none of all his hymning guards are nigh. To my dear lord the lovely fruit I'll bear; He, to partake my bliss, my crime shall share. [Exit hastily.

Lucif. She flew, and thanked me not, for haste: 'Twas hard, With no return such counsel to reward. My work is done, or much the greater part; She's now the tempter to ensnare his heart. He, whose firm faith no reason could remove, Will melt before that soft seducer, love. [Exit.

ACT V.

SCENE I.—Paradise.

EVE, with a bough in her hand.

Eve. Methinks I tread more lightly on the ground; My nimble feet from unhurt flowers rebound: I walk in air, and scorn this earthly seat; Heaven is my palace; this my base retreat. Take me not, heaven, too soon; 'twill be unkind To leave the partner of my bed behind. I love the wretch; but stay, shall I afford Him part? already he's too much my lord. 'Tis in my power to be a sovereign now; And, knowing more, to make his manhood bow. Empire is sweet; but how if heaven has spied? If I should die, and He above provide Some other Eve, and place her in my stead? Shall she possess his love, when I am dead? No; he shall eat, and die with me, or live: Our equal crimes shall equal fortune give.

Enter ADAM.

Adam. What joy, without your sight, has earth, in store! While you were absent, Eden was no more. Winds murmured through the leaves your long delay, And fountains, o'er the pebbles, chid your stay: But with your presence cheered, they cease to mourn, And walks wear fresher green at your return.

Eve. Henceforth you never shall have cause to chide; No future absence shall our joys divide: 'Twas a short death my love ne'er tried before, And therefore strange; but yet the cause was more.

Adam. My trembling heart forebodes some ill; I fear To ask that cause which I desire to hear. What means that lovely fruit? what means, alas! That blood, which flushes guilty in your face? Speak—do not—yet, at last, I must be told.

Eve. Have courage, then: 'tis manly to be bold. This fruit—why dost thou shake? no death is nigh: 'Tis what I tasted first; yet do not die.

Adam. Is it—(I dare not ask it all at first; Doubt is some ease to those who fear the worst:) Say, 'tis not—

Eve. 'Tis not what thou needst to fear: What danger does in this fair fruit appear? We have been cozened; and had still been so, Had I not ventured boldly first to know. Yet, not I first; I almost blush to say, The serpent eating taught me first the way. The serpent tasted, and the godlike fruit Gave the dumb voice; gave reason to the brute.

Adam. O fairest of all creatures, last and best Of what heaven made, how art them dispossest Of all thy native glories! fallen! decayed! (Pity so rare a frame so frail was made) Now cause of thy own ruin; and with thine, (Ah, who can live without thee!) cause of mine.

Eve. Reserve thy pity till I want it more: I know myself much happier than before; More wise, more perfect, all I wish to be, Were I but sure, alas! of pleasing thee.

Adam. You've shown, how much you my content design: Yet, ah! would heaven's displeasure pass like mine! Must I without you, then, in wild woods dwell? Think, and but think, of what I loved so well? Condemned to live with subjects ever mute; A savage prince, unpleased, though absolute?

Eve. Please then yourself with me, and freely taste, Lest I, without you, should to godhead haste: Lest, differing in degree, you claim too late Unequal love, when 'tis denied by fate.

Adam. Cheat not yourself with dreams of deity; Too well, but yet too late, your crime I see: Nor think the fruit your knowledge does improve; But you have beauty still, and I have love. Not cozened, I with choice my life resign: Imprudence was your fault, but love was mine. [Takes the fruit and eats it.

Eve. O wondrous power of matchless love exprest! [Embracing him. Why was this trial thine, of loving best? I envy thee that lot; and could it be, Would venture something more than death for thee. Not that I fear, that death the event can prove; Ware both immortal, while so well we love.

Adam. Whate'er shall be the event, the lot is cast; Where appetites are given, what sin to taste? Or if a sin, 'tis but by precept such; The offence so small, the punishment's too much. To seek so soon his new-made world's decay: Nor we, nor that, were fashioned for a day.

Eve. Give to the winds thy fear of death, or ill; And think us made but for each other's will.

Adam. I will, at least, defer that anxious thought, And death, by fear, shall not be nigher brought: If he will come, let us to joys make haste; Then let him seize us when our pleasure's past. We'll take up all before; and death shall find We have drained life, and left a void behind. [Exeunt.

Enter LUCIFER.

Lucif. 'Tis done: Sick Nature, at that instant, trembled round; And mother Earth sighed, as she felt the wound. Of how short durance was this new-made state! How far more mighty than heaven's love, hell's hate! His project ruined, and his king of clay: He formed an empire for his foe to sway. Heaven let him rule, which by his arms he got; I'm pleased to have obtained the second lot. This earth is mine; whose lord I made my thrall: Annexing to my crown his conquered ball. Loosed from the lakes my regions I will lead, And o'er the darkened air black banners spread: Contagious damps, from hence, shall mount above, And force him to his inmost heaven's remove. [A clap of thunder is heard. He hears already, and I boast too soon; I dread that engine which secured his throne. I'll dive below his wrath, into the deep, And waste that empire, which I cannot keep. [Sinks down.

RAPHAEL and GABRIEL descend.

Raph. As much of grief as happiness admits In heaven, on each celestial forehead sits: Kindness for man, and pity for his fate, May mix with bliss, and yet not violate. Their heavenly harps a lower strain began; And, in soft music, mourned the fall of man.

Gab. I saw the angelic guards from earth ascend, (Grieved they must now no longer man attend:) The beams about their temples dimly shone; One would have thought the crime had been their own. The etherial people flocked for news in haste, Whom they, with down-cast looks, and scarce saluting past: While each did, in his pensive breast, prepare A sad account of their successless care.

Raph. The Eternal yet, in majesty severe, And strictest justice, did mild pity bear: Their deaths deferred; and banishment, (their doom,) In penitence foreseen, leaves mercy room.

Gab. That message is thy charge: Mine leads me hence; Placed at the garden's gate, for its defence, Lest man, returning, the blest place pollute, And 'scape from death, by life's immortal fruit. [Another clap of thunder. Exeunt severally.

Enter ADAM and EVE, affrighted.

Adam. In what dark cavern shall I hide my head? Where seek retreat, now innocence is fled? Safe in that guard, I durst even hell defy; Without it, tremble now, when heaven is nigh.

Eve. What shall we do? or where direct our flight? Eastward, as far as I could cast my sight, From opening heavens, I saw descending light. Its glittering through the trees I still behold; The cedar tops seem all to burn with gold.

Adam. Some shape divine, whose beams I cannot bear! Would I were hid, where light could not appear. Deep into some thick covert would I run, Impenetrable to the stars or sun, And fenced from day, by night's eternal skreen; Unknown to heaven, and to myself unseen.

Eve. In vain: What hope to shun his piercing sight, Who from dark chaos struck the sparks of light?

Adam. These should have been your thoughts, when, parting hence, You trusted to your guideless innocence. See now the effects of your own wilful mind: Guilt walks before us; death pursues behind. So fatal 'twas to seek temptations out: Most confidence has still most cause to doubt.

Eve. Such might have been thy hap, alone assailed; And so, together, might we both have failed. Cursed vassalage of all my future kind! First idolized, till love's hot fire be o'er, Then slaves to those who courted us before.

Adam. I counselled you to stay; your pride refused: By your own lawless will you stand accused.

Eve. Have you that privilege of only wise, And would you yield to her you so despise? You should have shown the authority you boast, And, sovereign-like, my headlong will have crost: Counsel was not enough to sway my heart; An absolute restraint had been your part.

Adam. Even such returns do they deserve to find, When force is lawful, who are fondly kind. Unlike my love; for when thy guilt I knew, I shared the curse which did that crime pursue. Hard fate of love! which rigour did forbear, And now 'tis taxed, because 'twas not severe.

Eve. You have yourself your kindness overpaid; He ceases to oblige, who can upbraid.

Adam. On women's virtue, who too much rely, To boundless will give boundless liberty. Restraint you will not brook; but think it hard Your prudence is not trusted as your guard: And, to yourselves so left, if ill ensues, You first our weak indulgence will accuse. Curst be that hour, When, sated with my single happiness, I chose a partner, to controul my bliss! Who wants that reason which her will should sway, And knows but just enough to disobey.

Eve. Better with brutes my humble lot had gone; Of reason void, accountable for none: The unhappiest of creation is a wife, Made lowest, in the highest rank of life: Her fellow's slave; to know, and not to chuse: Curst with that reason she must never use.

Adam. Add, that she's proud, fantastic, apt to change, Restless at home, and ever prone to range: With shows delighted, and so vain is she, She'll meet the devil, rather than not see. Our wise Creator, for his choirs divine, Peopled his heaven with souls all masculine.— Ah! why must man from woman take his birth? Why was this sin of nature made on earth? This fair defect, this helpless aid, called wife; The bending crutch of a decrepid life? Posterity no pairs from you shall find, But such as by mistake of love are joined: The worthiest men their wishes ne'er shall gain; But see the slaves they scorn their loves obtain. Blind appetite shall your wild fancies rule; False to desert, and faithful to a fool. [Turns in anger from her, and is going off.

Eve. Unkind! wilt thou forsake me, in distress, [Kneeling. For that which now is past me to redress? I have misdone, and I endure the smart, Loth to acknowledge, but more loth to part. The blame be mine; you warned, and I refused: What would you more? I have myself accused. Was plighted faith so weakly sealed above, That, for one error, I must lose your love? Had you so erred, I should have been more kind, Than to add pain to an afflicted mind.

Adam. You're grown much humbler than you were before; I pardon you; but see my face no more.

Eve. Vain pardon, which includes a greater ill; Be still displeased, but let me see you still. Without your much-loved sight I cannot live; You more than kill me, if you so forgive. The beasts, since we are fallen, their lords despise; And, passing, look at me with glaring eyes: Must I then wander helpless, and alone? You'll pity me, too late, when I am gone.

Adam. Your penitence does my compassion move; As you deserve it, I may give my love.

Eve. On me, alone, let heaven's displeasure fall; You merit none, and I deserve it all.

Adam. You all heaven's wrath! how could you bear a part, Who bore not mine, but with a bleeding heart? I was too stubborn, thus to make you sue; Forgive me—I am more in fault than you. Return to me, and to my love return; And, both offending, for each other mourn.

Enter RAPHAEL.

Raph. Of sin to warn thee I before was sent; For sin, I now pronounce thy punishment: Yet that much lighter than thy crimes require; Th' All-good does not his creatures' death desire: Justice must punish the rebellious deed; Yet punish so, as pity shall exceed.

Adam. I neither can dispute his will, nor dare: Death will dismiss me from my future care, And lay me softly in my native dust, To pay the forfeit of ill-managed trust.

Eve. Why seek you death? consider, ere you speak, The laws were hard, the power to keep them, weak. Did we solicit heaven to mould our clay? From darkness to produce us to the day? Did we concur to life, or chuse to be? Was it our will which formed, or was it He? Since 'twas his choice, not ours, which placed us here, The laws we did not chuse why should we bear?

Adam. Seek not, in vain, our Maker to accuse; Terms were proposed; power left us to refuse. The good we have enjoyed from heaven's free will, And shall we murmur to endure the ill? Should we a rebel son's excuse receive, Because he was begot without his leave? Heaven's right in us is more: first, formed to serve; The good, we merit not; the ill, deserve.

Raph. Death is deferred, and penitence has room To mitigate, if not reverse the doom: But, for your crime, the Eternal does ordain In Eden you no longer shall remain. Hence, to the lower world, you are exiled; This place with crimes shall be no more defiled.

Eve. Must we this blissful paradise forego?

Raph. Your lot must be where thorns and thistles grow, Unhid, as balm and spices did at first; For man, the earth, of which he was, is cursed. By thy own toil procured, thou food shalt eat; [To ADAM. And know no plenty, but from painful sweat. She, by a curse, of future wives abhorred, Shall pay obedience to her lawful lord; And he shall rule, and she in thraldom live, Desiring more of love than man can give.

Adam. Heaven is all mercy; labour I would chuse; And could sustain this paradise to lose: The bliss, but not the place: Here, could I say, Heaven's winged messenger did pass the day; Under this pine the glorious angel staid: Then, show my wondering progeny the shade. In woods and lawns, where-e'er thou didst appear, Each place some monument of thee should bear. I, with green turfs, would grateful altars raise, And heaven, with gums, and offered incense, praise.

Raph. Where-e'er thou art, He is; the Eternal Mind Acts through all places; is to none confined: Fills ocean, earth, and air, and all above, And through the universal mass does move. Thou canst be no where distant: Yet this place Had been thy kingly seat, and here thy race, From all the ends of peopled earth had come To reverence thee, and see their native home. Immortal, then; now sickness, care, and age, And war, and luxury's more direful rage, Thy crimes have brought, to shorten mortal breath, With all the numerous family of death.

Eve. My spirits faint, while I these ills foreknow, And find myself the sad occasion too. But what is death?

Raph. In vision thou shalt see his griesly face, The king of terrors, raging in thy face. That, while in future fate thou shar'st thy part, A kind remorse, for sin, may seize thy heart.

The SCENE shifts, and discovers deaths of several sorts. A Battle at Land, and a Naval Fight.

Adam. O wretched offspring! O unhappy state Of all mankind, by me betrayed to fate! Born, through my crime, to be offenders first; And, for those sins they could not shun, accurst.

Eve. Why is life forced on man, who, might he chuse, Would not accept what he with pain must lose? Unknowing, he receives it; and when, known, He thinks it his, and values it, 'tis gone.

Raph. Behold of every age; ripe manhood see, Decrepid years, and helpless infancy: Those who, by lingering sickness, lose their breath; And those who, by despair, suborn their death: See yon mad fools, who for some trivial right, For love, or for mistaken honour, fight: See those, more mad, who throw their lives away In needless wars; the stakes which monarchs lay, When for each other's provinces they play. Then, as if earth too narrow were for fate, On open seas their quarrels they debate: In hollow wood they floating armies bear; And force imprisoned winds to bring them near.

Eve. Who would the miseries of man foreknow? Not knowing, we but share our part of woe: Now, we the fate of future ages bear, And, ere their birth, behold our dead appear.

Adam. The deaths, thou show'st, are forced and full of strife, Cast headlong from the precipice of life. Is there no smooth descent? no painless way Of kindly mixing with our native clay?

Raph. There is; but rarely shall that path be trod, Which, without horror, leads to death's abode. Some few, by temperance taught, approaching slow, To distant fate by easy journies go: Gently they lay them down, as evening sheep On their own woolly fleeces softly sleep.

Adam. So noiseless would I live, such death to find; Like timely fruit, not shaken by the wind, But ripely dropping from the sapless bough, And, dying, nothing to myself would owe.

Eve. Thus, daily changing, with a duller taste Of lessening joys, I, by degrees, would waste: Still quitting ground, by unperceived decay, And steal myself from life, and melt away.

Raph. Death you have seen: Now see your race revive, How happy they in deathless pleasures live; Far more than I can show, or you can see, Shall crown the blest with immortality.

Here a Heaven descends, full of Angels, and blessed Spirits, with soft Music, a Song and Chorus.

Adam. O goodness infinite! whose heavenly will Can so much good produce from so much ill! Happy their state! Pure, and unchanged, and needing no defence From sins, as did my frailer innocence. Their joy sincere, and with no sorrow mixt: Eternity stands permanent and fixt, And wheels no longer on the poles of time; Secure from fate, and more secure from crime.

Eve. Ravished with joy, I can but half repent The sin, which heaven makes happy in the event.

Raph. Thus armed, meet firmly your approaching ill; For see, the guards, from yon' far eastern hill, Already move, nor longer stay afford; High in the air they wave the flaming sword, Your signal to depart; now down amain They drive, and glide, like meteors, through the plain.

Adam. Then farewell all; I will indulgent be To my own ease, and not look back to see. When what we love we ne'er must meet again, To lose the thought is to remove the pain.

Eve. Farewell, you happy shades! Where angels first should practise hymns, and string Their tuneful harps, when they to heaven would sing. Farewell, you flowers, whose buds, with early care, I watched, and to the chearful sun did rear: Who now shall bind your stems? or, when you fall, With fountain streams your fainting souls recal? A long farewell to thee, my nuptial bower, Adorned with every fair and fragrant flower! And last, farewell, farewell my place of birth! I go to wander in the lower earth, As distant as I can; for, dispossest, Farthest from what I once enjoyed, is best.

Raph. The rising winds urge the tempestuous air; And on their wings deformed winter bear: The beasts already feel the change; and hence They fly to deeper coverts, for defence: The feebler herd before the stronger run; For now the war of nature is begun: But, part you hence in peace, and, having mourned your sin, For outward Eden lost, find Paradise within. [Exeunt.

* * * * *

AURENG-ZEBE.

A

TRAGEDY.

—Sed, cum fregit subsellia versu, Esurit, intactam Paridi nisi vendat Agaven. JUV.



AURENG-ZEBE.

"Aureng-Zebe," or the Ornament of the Throne, for such is the interpretation of his name, was the last descendant of Timur, who enjoyed the plenitude of authority originally vested in the Emperor of India. His father, Sha-Jehan, had four sons, to each of whom he delegated the command of a province. Dara-Sha, the eldest, superintended the district of Delhi, and remained near his father's person; Sultan-Sujah was governor of Bengal, Aureng-Zebe of the Decan, and Morat Bakshi of Guzerat. It happened, that Sha-Jehan being exhausted by the excesses of the Haram, a report of his death became current in the provinces, and proved the signal for insurrection and discord among his children. Morat Bakshi possessed himself of Surat, after a long siege, and Sultan-Sujah, having declared himself independent in Bengal, advanced as far as Lahor, with a large army. Dara-Sha, the legitimate successor of the crown, was the only son of Sha-Jehan, who preferred filial duty to the prospect of aggrandisement. He dispatched an army against Sultan-Sujah, checked his progress, and compelled him to retreat. But Aureng-Zebe, the third and most wily of the brethren, had united his forces to those of Morat Bakshi, and advancing against Dara-Sha, totally defeated him, and dissipated his army. Aureng-Zebe availed himself of the military reputation and treasures, acquired by his success, to seduce the forces of Morat Bakshi, whom he had pretended to assist, and, seizing upon his person at a banquet, imprisoned him in a strong fortress. Meanwhile, he advanced towards Agra, where his father had sought refuge, still affecting to believe that the old emperor was dead. The more pains Sha-Jehan took to contradict this report, the more obstinate was Aureng-Zebe in refusing to believe that he was still alive. And, although the emperor dispatched his most confidential servants to assure his dutiful son that he was yet in being, the incredulity of Aureng-Zebe could only be removed by a personal interview, the issue of which was Sha-Jehan's imprisonment and speedy death. During these transactions Dara-Sha, who, after his defeat, had fled with his treasures to Lahor, again assembled an army, and advanced against the conqueror; but, being deserted by his allies, defeated by Aureng-Zebe, and betrayed by an Omrah, whom he trusted in his flight, he was delivered up to his brother, and by his command assassinated. Aureng-Zebe now assumed the throne, and advanced against Sultan-Sujah, his sole remaining brother; he seduced his chief commanders, routed the forces who remained faithful, and drove him out of Bengal into the Pagan countries adjacent, where, after several adventures, he perished miserably in the mountains. Aureng-Zebe also murdered one or two nephews, and a few other near relations; but, in expiation of his complicated crimes, renounced the use of flesh, fish, and wine, living only upon barley-bread vegetables, and confections, although scrupling no excesses by which he could extend and strengthen his usurped power[1].

Dr Johnson has supposed, that, in assuming for his subject a living prince, Dryden incurred some risque; as, should Aureng-Zebe have learned and resented the freedom, our Indian trade was exposed to the consequences of his displeasure. It may, however, be safely doubted, whether a monarch, who had actually performed the achievements above narrated, would have been scandalized by those imputed to him in the text. In other respects, the distance and obscurity of the events gave a poet the same authority over them, as if they had occurred in the annals of past ages; a circumstance in which Dryden's age widely differed from ours, when so much has our intimacy increased with the Oriental world, that the transactions of Delhi are almost as familiar to us as those of Paris.

The tragedy of "Aureng-Zebe" is introduced by the poet's declaration in the prologue, that his taste for heroic plays was now upon the wane:

But he has now another taste of wit; And, to confess a truth, though out of time, Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme. Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound, And nature flies him, like enchanted ground, What verse can do, he has performed in this, Which he presumes the most correct of his.

Agreeably to what might be expected from this declaration, the verse used in "Aureng-Zebe" is of that kind which may be most easily applied to the purposes of ordinary dialogue. There is much less of ornate structure and emphatic swell, than occurs in the speeches of Almanzor and Maximin; and Dryden, though late, seems to have at length discovered, that the language of true passion is inconsistent with that regular modulation, to maintain which, the actor must mouth each couplet in a sort of recitative. The ease of the verse in "Aureng-Zebe," although managed with infinite address, did not escape censure. In the "just remonstrance of affronted That," transmitted to the Spectator, the offended conjunction is made to plead, "What great advantage was I of to Mr Dryden, in his "Indian Emperor?"

You force me still to answer you in that, To furnish out a rhime to Morat.

And what a poor figure would Mr Bayes have made, without his Egad, and all that?" But, by means of this easy flow of versification in which the rhime is sometimes almost lost by the pause being transferred to the middle of the line, Dryden, in some measure indemnified himself for his confinement, and, at least, muffled the clank of his fetters. Still, however, neither the kind of verse, nor perhaps the poet, himself, were formed for expressing rapid and ardent dialogue; and the beauties of "Aureng-Zebe" will be found chiefly to consist in strains of didactic morality, or solemn meditation. The passage, descriptive of life, has been distinguished by all the critics, down to Dr Johnson:

Aur. When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat; Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit; Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay: To-morrow's falser than the former day; Lies worse; and, while it says, We shall be blest With some new joys, cuts off what we possest. Strange cozenage! none would live past years again, Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain; And from the dregs of life think to receive What the first sprightly running could not give. I'm tired with waiting for this chemic gold, Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.

Nor is the answer of Nourmahal inferior in beauty:

Nour. 'Tis not for nothing that we life pursue; It pays our hopes with something still that's new; Each day's a mistress, unenjoyed before; Like travellers, we're pleased with seeing more. Did you but know what joys your way attend, You would not hurry to your journey's end.

It might be difficult to point out a passage in English poetry, in which so common and melancholy a truth is expressed in such beautiful verse, varied with such just illustration. The declamation on virtue, also, has great merit, though, perhaps, not equal to that on the vanity of life:

Aur. How vain is virtue, which directs our ways Through certain danger to uncertain praise! Barren, and airy name! thee fortune flies, With thy lean train, the pious and the wise. Heaven takes thee at thy word, without regard; And let's thee poorly be thy own reward. The world is made for the bold impious man, Who stops at nothing, seizes all he can. Justice to merit does weak aid afford; She trusts her balance, and neglects her sword. Virtue is nice to take what's not her own; And, while she long consults, the prize is gone.

To this account may be added the following passage from Davies' "Dramatic Miscellanies."

"Dryden's last and most perfect rhiming tragedy was 'Aureng-Zebe.' In this play, the passions are strongly depicted, the characters well discriminated, and the diction more familiar and dramatic than in any of his preceding pieces. Hart and Mohun greatly distinguished themselves in the characters of Aureng-Zebe, and the Old Emperor. Mrs Marshall was admired in Nourmahal, and Kynaston has been much extolled by Cibber, for his happy expression of the arrogant and savage fierceness in Morat. Booth, in some part of this character, says the same critical historian, was too tame, from an apprehension of raising the mirth of the audience improperly.

"Though I pay great deference to Cibber's judgment, yet I am not sure whether Booth was not in the right. And I cannot help approving the answer which this actor gave to one, who told him, he was surprised, that he neglected to give a spirited turn to the passage in question:

Nour. 'Twill not be safe to let him live an hour. Mor. I'll do it to shew my arbitrary power.

"'Sir,' said Booth, 'it was not through negligence, but by design, that I gave no spirit to that ludicrous bounce of Morat. I know very well, that a laugh of approbation may be obtained from the understanding few, but there is nothing more dangerous than exciting the laugh of simpletons, who know not where to stop. The majority is not the wisest part of the audience, and therefore I will run no hazard.'

"The court greatly encouraged the play of 'Aureng-Zebe.' The author tells us, in his dedication, that Charles II. altered an incident in the plot, and pronounced it to be the best of all Dryden's tragedies. It was revived at Drury-Lane about the year 1726, with the public approbation: The Old Emperor, Mills; Wilkes, Aureng-Zebe; Booth, Morat; Indamora, Mrs Oldfield; Melesinda, the first wife of Theophilus Cibber, a very pleasing actress, in person agreeable, and in private life unblemished. She died in 1733."—Vol. I. p. 157.

The introduction states all that can be said in favour of the management of the piece; and it is somewhat amusing to see the anxiety which Dryden uses to justify the hazardous experiment, of ascribing to emperors and princesses the language of nature and of passion. He appears with difficulty to have satisfied himself, that the decorum of the scene was not as peremptory as the etiquette of a court. "Aureng-Zebe" was received with the applause to which it is certainly entitled. It was acted and printed in 1676.

Footnote: 1. Voyages de Tavernier, seconde partie; livre seconde.



TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JOHN,

EARL OF MULGRAVE,

GENTLEMAN OF HIS MAJESTY'S BED-CHAMBER,

AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER

OF THE GARTER[1].

MY LORD,

It is a severe reflection which Montaigne has made on princes, that we ought not, in reason, to have any expectations of favour from them; and that it is kindness enough, if they leave us in possession of our own. The boldness of the censure shows the free spirit of the author: And the subjects of England may justly congratulate to themselves, that both the nature of our government, and the clemency of our king, secure us from any such complaint. I, in particular, who subsist wholly by his bounty, am obliged to give posterity a far other account of my royal master, than what Montaigne has left of his. Those accusations had been more reasonable, if they had been placed on inferior persons: For in all courts, there are too many, who make it their business to ruin wit; and Montaigne, in other places, tells us, what effects he found of their good natures. He describes them such, whose ambition, lust, or private interest, seem to be the only end of their creation. If good accrue to any from them, it is only in order to their own designs: conferred most commonly on the base and infamous; and never given, but only happening sometimes on well-deservers. Dulness has brought them to what they are; and malice secures them in their fortunes. But somewhat of specious they must have, to recommend themselves to princes, (for folly will not easily go down in its own natural form with discerning judges,) and diligence in waiting is their gilding of the pill; for that looks like love, though it is only interest. It is that which gains them their advantage over witty men; whose love of liberty and ease makes them willing too often to discharge their burden of attendance on these officious gentlemen. It is true, that the nauseousness of such company is enough to disgust a reasonable man; when he sees, he can hardly approach greatness, but as a moated castle; he must first pass through the mud and filth with which it is encompassed. These are they, who, wanting wit, affect gravity, and go by the name of solid men; and a solid man is, in plain English, a solid, solemn fool. Another disguise they have, (for fools, as well as knaves, take other names, and pass by an alias) and that is, the title of honest fellows. But this honesty of theirs ought to have many grains for its allowance; for certainly they are no farther honest, than they are silly: They are naturally mischievous to their power; and if they speak not maliciously, or sharply, of witty men, it is only because God has not bestowed on them the gift of utterance. They fawn and crouch to men of parts, whom they cannot ruin; quote their wit when they are present, and, when they are absent steal their jests; but to those who are under them, and whom they can crush with ease, they shew themselves in their natural antipathy; there they treat wit like the common enemy, and giving no more quarter, than a Dutchman would to an English vessel in the Indies; they strike sail where they know they shall be mastered, and murder where they can with safety.

This, my lord, is the character of a courtier without wit; and therefore that which is a satire to other men, must be a panegyric to your lordship, who are a master of it. If the least of these reflections could have reached your person, no necessity of mine could have made me to have sought so earnestly, and so long, to have cultivated your kindness. As a poet, I cannot but have made some observations on mankind; the lowness of my fortune has not yet brought me to flatter vice; and it is my duty to give testimony to virtue. It is true, your lordship is not of that nature, which either seeks a commendation, or wants it. Your mind has always been above the wretched affectation of popularity. A popular man is, in truth, no better than a prostitute to common fame, and to the people. He lies down to every one he meets for the hire of praise; and his humility is only a disguised ambition. Even Cicero himself, whose eloquence deserved the admiration of mankind, yet, by his insatiable thirst of fame, he has lessened his character with succeeding ages; his action against Catiline may be said to have ruined the consul, when it saved the city; for it so swelled his soul, which was not truly great, that ever afterwards it was apt to be over-set with vanity. And this made his virtue so suspected by his friends, that Brutus, whom of all men he adored, refused him a place in his conspiracy. A modern wit has made this observation on him; that, coveting to recommend himself to posterity, he begged it as an alms of all his friends, the historians, to remember his consulship: And observe, if you please, the oddness of the event; all their histories are lost, and the vanity of his request stands yet recorded in his own writings. How much more great and manly in your lordship, is your contempt of popular applause, and your retired virtue, which shines only to a few; with whom you live so easily and freely, that you make it evident, you have a soul which is capable of all the tenderness of friendship, and that you only retire yourself from those, who are not capable of returning it. Your kindness, where you have once placed it, is inviolable; and it is to that only I attribute my happiness in your love. This makes me more easily forsake an argument, on which I could otherwise delight to dwell; I mean, your judgment in your choice of friends; because I have the honour to be one. After which I am sure you will more easily permit me to be silent, in the care you have taken of my fortune; which you have rescued, not only from the power of others, but from my worst of enemies, my own modesty and laziness; which favour, had it been employed on a more deserving subject, had been an effect of justice in your nature; but, as placed on me, is only charity. Yet, withal, it is conferred on such a man, as prefers your kindness itself, before any of its consequences; and who values, as the greatest of your favours, those of your love, and of your conversation. From this constancy to your friends, I might reasonably assume, that your resentments would be as strong and lasting, if they were not restrained by a nobler principle of good nature and generosity; for certainly, it is the same composition of mind, the same resolution and courage, which makes the greatest friendships, and the greatest enmities. And he, who is too lightly reconciled, after high provocations, may recommend himself to the world for a Christian, but I should hardly trust him for a friend. The Italians have a proverb to that purpose, "To forgive the first time, shows me a good Catholic; the second time, a fool." To this firmness in all your actions, though you are wanting in no other ornaments of mind and body, yet to this I principally ascribe the interest your merits have acquired you in the royal family. A prince, who is constant to himself, and steady in all his undertakings; one with whom that character of Horace will agree,