The other shape, If shape it might be call'd that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, For each seem'd either,--black it stood as night, Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, And shook a dreadful dart; what seem'd his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on. Satan was now at hand.

Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.

God sure esteems the growth and completing of one virtuous person, more that the restraint of ten vicious.

Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.

'Paradise Lost' is one of the books which the reader admires and lays down, and forgets to take up again. None ever wished it longer than it is.

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?-thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades?