Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
But oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd, I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.
Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to light.
Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.