“I yield it just,” said Adam, “and submit. But is there yet no other way, besides These painful passages, how we may come To death, and mix with our connatural dust?”
“There is,” said Michael, “if thou well observe The rule of Not too much , by temperance taught In what thou eat’st and drink’st, seeking from thence Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight, Till many years over thy head return. So may’st thou live, till, like ripe fruit, thou drop Into thy mother’s lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature. This is old age; but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered, weak, and grey; thy senses then, Obtuse, all taste of pleasure must forgo To what thou hast; and, for the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry, To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.” To whom our Ancestor:
“Henceforth I fly not death, nor would prolong Life much, bent rather how I may be quit, Fairest and easiest, of this cumbrous charge, Which I must keep till my appointed day Of rendering up, and patiently attend My dissolution.” Michael replied:
“Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou livest Live well; how long or short, permit to Heaven. And now prepare thee for another sight.”
He looked, and saw a spacious plain, whereon Were tents of various hue; by some were herds Of cattle grazing; others, whence the sound Of instruments that made melodious chime Was heard, of harp and organ, and who moved Their stops and chords was seen; his volant touch Instinct through all proportions, low and high, Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue. In other part stood one who, at the forge Labouring, two massy clods of iron and brass Had melted (whether found where casual fire Had wasted woods, on mountain or in vale, Down to the veins of Earth, thence gliding hot To some cave’s mouth, or