None can love freedom heartily, but good men; the rest love not freedom, but license.
Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
Th'invention all admir'd, and each, how he to be th'inventor miss'd; so easy it seem'd once found, which yet unfound most would have thought impossible.
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.
Our two first parents, yet the only two Of mankind, in the happy garden placed, Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love, Uninterrupted joy, unrivalled love In blissful solitude.