To hell's dark night; and Adam, good though guilty;
And the indomitable archangel,
Proud to hold sway o'er an eternity,
Wise in his madness, grand in his despair,
Forthcoming from the blazing lake of fire
O'er which he slowly flaps his monstrous wings.—
For in my breast an ardent genius toils.
I muse in silence on a strange design.
In his thoughts Milton lives and solace finds.—
I purpose, I, aweless competitor
Of the supreme Creator, to create
A world 'twixt hell and earth and highest heaven.
Rochester [aside.] What in the devil is he saying there?
Hannibal Sesthead [to the jesters.
Absurd fanatic!
Cromwell [glancing at Milton, with a shrug.
Your "Iconoclast"
Is very well; but as for your great devil,
[He laughs.
A new Leviathan, he's execrable.
Milton [indignantly, between his teeth.
And Cromwell at my Satan dares to laugh!
Rochester [going up to Milton.
Good Master Milton—
Milton [with his face turned toward Cromwell, does not hear Rochester.
'Tis pure jealousy
Bids him speak thus!
Rochester [to Milton, who listens with a distraught air.
You do not understand
True poesy, 'pon honour. Wit you have,
But you lack taste. The French our masters are
In all things. Study Racan. Read his Bergeries.
Amongst your fields let fair Aminta stray
With Thyrsis; even let her lead a lamb
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