To whom thus Zephon, answering scorn with scorn: “Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminished brightness, to be known As when thou stood’st in Heaven upright and pure. That glory then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee; and thou resemblest now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foul. But come; for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm.”
So spake the Cherub; and his grave rebuke, Severe in youthful beauty, added grace Invincible. Abashed the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely; saw, and pined His loss; but chiefly to find here observed His lustre visibly impaired; yet seemed Undaunted. “If I must contend,” said he, “Best with the best—the sender, not the sent; Or all at once; more glory will be won, Or less be lost.” “Thy fear,” said Zephon bold, “Will save us trial what the least can do Single against thee, wicked and thence weak.”
The Fiend replied not, overcome with rage; But, like a proud steed reined, went haughty on, Champing his iron curb: