To basest things. Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils. Let it; I reck not, so it light well aimed (Since higher I fall short) on him who next Provokes my envy, this new favourite Of Heaven, this man of clay, son of despite, Whom, us the more to spite, his Maker raised From dust: spite then with spite is best repaid.”

So saying, through each thicket, dank or dry, Like a black mist low-creeping, he held on His midnight search, where soonest he might find The serpent. Him fast sleeping soon he found, In labyrinth of many a round self-rolled, His head the midst, well stored with subtle wiles: Not yet in horrid shade or dismal den, Nor nocent yet, but on the grassy herb, Fearless, unfeared, he slept. In at his mouth The Devil entered, and his brutal sense, In heart or head, possessing soon inspired With act intelligential; but his sleep Disturbed not, waiting close the approach of morn.