“O unexpected stroke, worse than of Death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave Thee, native soil? these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend, Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both. O flowers, That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation, and my last At even, which I bred up with tender hand From the first opening bud, and gave ye names, Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount? Thee, lastly, nuptial bower, by me adorned With what to sight or smell was sweet, from thee How shall I part, and whither wander down Into a lower world, to this obscure And wild? How shall we breathe in other air Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits?”