“Thoughts, whither have ye led me? with what sweet Compulsion thus transported to forget What hither brought us? hate, not love, nor hope Of Paradise for Hell, hope here to taste Of pleasure, but all pleasure to destroy, Save what is in destroying; other joy To me is lost. Then let me not let pass Occasion which now smiles: behold alone The woman, opportune to all attempts, Her husband, for I view far round, not nigh, Whose higher intellectual more I shun, And strength, of courage haughty, and of limb Heroic built, though of terrestrial mould; Foe not informidable, exempt from wound, I not; so much hath Hell debased, and pain Enfeebled me, to what I was in Heaven. She fair, divinely fair, fit love for Gods, Not terrible, though terror be in love And beauty, not approached by stronger hate, Hate stronger under show of love well feigned⁠— The way which to her ruin now I tend.”