“O father, what intends thy hand,” she cried, “Against thy only son? What fury, O son, Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart Against thy father’s head? and know’st for whom; For him who sits above, and laughs the while At thee ordained his drudge, to execute Whate’er his wrath, which he calls justice, bids⁠— His wrath, which one day will destroy ye both!”

She spake, and at her words the hellish Pest Forbore; then these to her Satan returned:

“So strange thy outcry, and thy words so strange Thou interposest! that my sudden hand, Prevented, spares to tell thee yet by deeds What it intends, till first I know of thee What thing thou art, thus double-formed, and why, In this infernal vale first met, thou call’st Me father, and that phantasm call’st my son. I know thee not, nor ever saw till now Sight more detestable than him and thee.”