Yield nectar; though from off the boughs each morn We brush mellifluous dews, and find the ground Covered with pearly grain; yet God hath here Varied his bounty so with new delights As may compare with Heaven; and to taste Think not I shall be nice.” So down they sat, And to their viands fell; nor seemingly The Angel, nor in mist⁠—the common gloss Of theologians⁠—but with keen dispatch Of real hunger, and concoctive heat To transubstantiate: what redounds transpires Through Spirits with ease; nor wonder, if by fire Of sooty coal the empiric alchemist Can turn, or holds it possible to turn, Metals of drossiest ore to perfect gold, As from the mine. Meanwhile at table Eve Ministered naked, and their flowing cups With pleasant liquors crowned. O innocence Deserving Paradise! If ever, then, Then had the Sons of God excuse to have been Enamoured at that sight; but in those hearts Love unlibidinous reigned, nor jealousy Was understood, the injured lover’s hell.