To whom thus Michael: “Judge not what is best By pleasure, though to Nature seeming meet, Created, as thou art, to nobler end, Holy and pure, conformity divine. Those tents thou saw’st so pleasant were the tents Of wickedness, wherein shall dwell his race Who slew his brother: studious they appear Of arts that polish life, inventors rare; Unmindful of their Maker, though his Spirit Taught them; but they his gifts acknowledged none. Yet they a beauteous offspring shall beget; For that fair female troop thou saw’st, that seemed Of goddesses, so blithe, so smooth, so gay, Yet empty of all good wherein consists Woman’s domestic honour and chief praise; Bred only and completed to the taste Of lustful appetence, to sing, to dance, To dress, and troll the tongue, and roll the eye; To these that sober race of men, whose lives Religious titled them the Sons of God, Shall yield up all their virtue, all their fame, Ignobly, to the trains and to the smiles Of these fair atheists, and now swim in joy (Erelong to swim at large) and laugh; for which The world erelong a world of tears must weep.”