Poem 10

“O miserable of happy! is this the end Of this new glorious World, and me so late The glory of that glory? who now, become Accursed of blessed, hide me from the face Of God, whom to behold was then my highth Of happiness! Yet well, if here would end The misery; I deserved it, and would bear My own deservings; but this will not serve: All that I eat or drink, or shall beget, Is propagated curse. O voice, once heard Delightfully, ‘Increase and multiply’; Now death to hear! for what can I increase Or multiply, but curses on my head? Who, of all ages to succeed, but, feeling The evil on him brought by me, will curse My head? ‘Ill fare our Ancestor impure! For this we may thank Adam!’ but his thanks Shall be the execration; so, besides Mine own that bide upon me, all from me Shall with a fierce reflux on me redound, On me, as on their natural centre, light Heavy, though in their place. O fleeting joys Of Paradise, dear bought with lasting woes! Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me Man? did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me, or here place In this delicious garden? As my will Concurred not to my being, it were but right And equal to reduce me to my dust, Desirous to resign and render back All I received, unable to perform Thy terms too hard, by which I was to hold The good I sought not. To the loss of that, Sufficient penalty, why hast thou added The sense of endless woes? inexplicable Thy justice seems. Yet, to say truth, too late I thus contest; then should have been refused Those terms whatever, when they were proposed. Thou didst accept them: wilt thou enjoy the good, Then cavil the conditions? And though God Made thee without thy leave, what if thy son Prove disobedient, and, reproved, retort, ‘Wherefore didst thou beget me? I sought it not!’ Wouldst thou admit for his contempt of thee That proud excuse? yet him not thy election, But natural necessity, begot. God made thee of choice his own, and of his own To serve him; thy reward was of his grace; Thy punishment then justly is at his will. Be it so, for I submit; his doom is fair, That dust I am, and shall to dust return. O welcome hour whenever! Why delays His hand to execute what his decree Fixed on this day? Why do I overlive? Why am I mocked