Our purer essence then will overcome Their noxious vapour, or inured not feel, Or changed at length, and to the place conformed In temper and in nature, will receive Familiar the fierce heat, and void of pain; This horror will grow mild, this darkness light; Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting, since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.”

Thus Belial with words clothed in reason’s garb Counseled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth, Not peace; and after him thus Mammon spake: