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Sticks no dishonour on our Front, but turns

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Foul on himself; then wherefore fhun'd or fear'd
By us who rather double honour gain
From his furmise prov'd false, find peace within,
Favour from Heav'n, our witness from th' event.
And what is Faith, Love, Virtue unaffay'd
Alone, without exterior help fustain’d?
Let us not then suspect our happy State
Left fo imperfect by the Maker wife,
As not fecure to single or combin❜d,
Frail is our happiness, if this be so,
And Eden were to Eden thus expos'd.

To whom thus Adam fervently reply'd.

O Woman, beft are all things as the will
Of God ordain'd them, his creating hand
Nothing imperfect or deficient left

Of all that he Created, much less Man,
Or aught that might his happy State fecure,
Secure from outward force; within himself
The danger lyes, yet lyes within his power:
Against his will he can receive no harm,
But God left free the Will, for what obeys
Reason, is free, and Reafon he made right,
But bid her well beware, and still erect,
Left by fome fair appearing good furpris'd
She dictate falfe, and mifinform the Will

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To do what God exprefly hath forbid.

Not then mistrust, but tender love enjoyns,

That I should mind thee oft, and mind thou me. Firm we fubfift, yet poffible to fwerve,

Since Reason not impoffibly may meet
Some specious object by the Foe fuborn'd,
And fall into deception unaware,

Not keeping ftri&teft watch, as she was warn'd.
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid
Were better, and most likely if from me
Thou fever not: Trial will come unfought.
Wouldst thou improve thy conftancy, approve
First thy obedience; th'other who can know,
Not feeing thee attempted, who atteft;
But if thou think, trial unfought may find
Us both fecurer than thus warn'd thou seem'ft,
Go; for thy stay, not free, absents thee more;
Go in thy native innocence, rely

On what thou haft of virtue, fummon all,

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For God towards thee hath done his part, do thine. So fpake the Patriarch of Mankind, but Eve 376 Persisted, yet submiss, though last, reply'd.

With thy permiffion then, and thus forewarn'd Chiefly by what thy own laft reafoning words Touch'd only, that our trial, when leaft fought, 380 May find us both perhaps far lefs prepar'd, The willinger I go, nor much expect

A Foe fo proud will firft the weaker feek;

So bent, the more shall fhame him, his repulse. Thus faying, from her Husband's hand her hand 385 Soft the withdrew, and like a Wood-Nymph light Oread or Dryad, or of Delia's Train,

Betook her to the Groves, but Delia's felf

In gate furpafs'd, and Goddess like deport,

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Though not as fhe with Bow and Quiver arm'd, 390
But with fuch Gardning Tools as Art yet rude,
Guiltless of fire had form'd, or Angels brought.
To Pales, or Pomona thus adorn'd,
Likelieft fhe feem'd, Pomona when she fled
Vertumnus, or to Ceres in her Prime,
Yet Virgin of Proferpina from Jove.
Her long with ardent look his Eye purfu'd
Delighted, but defiring more her stay.
Oft he to her his charge of quick return
Repeated, he to him as oft engag'd
To be return'd by Noon amid the Bowre,
And all things in beft order to invite
Noontide repaft, or Afternoons repofe.
O much deceiv'd, much failing, hapless Eve,
Of thy prefum'd return! event perverfe!
Thou never from that hour in Paradife

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Foundft either fweet repaft, or found repofe;
Such ambush laid among fweet Flours and Shades
Waited with hellish rancour imminent

To intercept thy way, or fend thee back
Defpoil'd of Innocence, of Faith, of Bliss.

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For now, and fince firft break of dawn the Fiend,

Meer Serpent in appearance, forth was come,
And on his Queft, where likelieft he might find
The only two of Mankind, but in them
The whole included Race, his purpos'd prey.
In Bowre and Field he fought, where any tuft
Of Grove or Garden-Plot more pleasant lay,
The tendance or Plantation for delight,

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By Fountain or by fhady Rivulet

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He fought them both, but wish'd his hap might find
Eve separate, he wish'd, but not with hope
Of what fo feldom chanc'd, when to his wish,
Beyond his hope, Eve feparate he spies,

Veil'd in a Cloud of Fragrance, where the flood, 425
Half fpy'd, fo thick the Rofes bushing round
About her glow'd, half stooping to support
Each Flour of flender stalk, whose head though gay
Carnation, Purple, Azure, or spect with Gold,
Hung drooping unsustain'd, them the upflays 430
Gently with Mirtle band, mindless the while,
Her felf, though faireft unfupported Flour,
From her best prop fo far, and storm so nigh.
Nearer he drew, and many a walk travers'd
Of statelieft Covert, Cedar, Pine, or Palni,
Then voluble and bold, now hid, now seen
Among thick-wov'n Arborets and Flours
Imborder'd on each Bank, the hand of Eve:
Spot more delicious than those Gardens feign'd
Or of reviv'd Adonis, or renown'd
Alcinous, hoft of old Laertes Son,

Or that, not Myftic, where the Sapient King
Held dalliance with his fair Egyptian Spouse.
Much he the Place admir'd, the Perfon more.
As one who long in populous City pent,
Where Houses thick and Sewers annoy the Aire,
Forth iffuing on a Summers Morn to breathe
Among the pleasant Villages and Farms

Adjoyn'd, from each thing met conceives delight,

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The fmell of Grain, or tedded Grafs, or Kine, 450
Or Dairy, each rural fight, each rural found;
If chance with Nymphlike ftep fair Virgin pass,
What pleafing feem'd, for her now pleases more,
She most, and in her look fums all Delight.
Such pleasure took the Serpent to behold
This Floury Plat, the fweet recefs of Eve
Thus early, thus alone; her Heav'nly form
Angelic, but more foft, and Feminine,
Her graceful Innocence, her every Aire
Of gesture or left action overaw'd

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His Malice, and with rapine fweet bereav'd

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That Space the Evil one abftra&ted food

His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought:

From his own evil, and for the time remain'd
Stupidly good, of enmity difarm'd,

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Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge;

But the hot Hell that always in him burns,
Though in mid Heav'n, foon ended his delight,
And tortures him now more, the more he fees
Of pleasure not for him ordain'd; then foon 470
Fierce hate he recollects, and all his thoughts
Of mischief, gratulating, thus excites.

Thoughts, whither have ye led me, with what sweet
Compulfion thus tranfported to forget
What hither brought us, hate, not love, nor hope
Of Paradife for Hell, hope here to tafte
Of pleasure, but all pleasure to destroy,
Save what is in deftroying, other joy
To me is loft. Then let me not let pafs

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