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Book 2.
Paradiſe loſt.

To be no more; ſad cure; for who would looſe,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Thoſe thoughts that wander through Eternity,
To periſh rather, ſwallowed up and loſt
In the wide womb of uncreated night, 150
Devoid of ſenſe and motion? and who knows,
Let this be good, whether our angry Foe
Can give it, or will ever? how he can
Is doubtful; that he never will is ſure.
Will he, ſo wiſe, let looſe at once his ire,
Belike through impotence, or unaware,
To give his Enemies thir wiſh, and end
Them in his anger, whom his anger ſaves
To puniſh endleſs? wherefore ceaſe we then?
Say they who counſel Warr, we are decreed, 160
Reſerv’d and deſtin’d to Eternal woe;
Whatever doing, what can we ſuffer more,
What can we ſuffer worſe? is this then worſt,
Thus ſitting, thus conſulting, thus in Arms?
What when we fled amain, purſu’d and ſtrook
With Heav’ns afflicting Thunder, and beſought
The Deep to ſhelter us? this Hell then ſeem’d
A refuge from thoſe wounds: or when we lay
Chain’d on the burning Lake? that ſure was worſe.
What if the breath that kindl’d thoſe grim fires 170
Awak’d ſhould blow them into ſevenfold rage
And plunge us in the Flames? or from above
Should intermitted vengeance Arme again
His red right hand to plague us? what if all
Her ſtores were op’n’d, and this Firmament
Of Hell ſhould ſpout her Cataracts of Fire,
Impendent horrors, threatning hideous fall

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