To whom thus Eve with sad demeanour meek: “Ill-worthy I such title should belong To me transgressor, who, for thee ordained A help, became thy snare; to me reproach Rather belongs, distrust and all dispraise. But infinite in pardon was my Judge, That I, who first brought death on all, am graced The source of life; next favourable thou, Who highly thus to entitle me vouchsaf’st, Far other name deserving. But the field To labour calls us, now with sweat imposed, Though after sleepless night; for see! the Morn, All unconcerned with our unrest, begins Her rosy progress smiling. Let us forth, I never from thy side henceforth to stray, Where’er our day’s work lies, though now enjoined Laborious, till day droop; while here we dwell, What can be toilsome in these pleasant walks? Here let us live, though in fallen state, content.”