Good, the more communicated, more abundant grows.

O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.

A crown Golden in show, is but a wreath of thorns, Bring dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights To him who wears the regal diadem

Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.

So scented the grim Feature, and upturn'd His nostril wide into the murky air, Sagacious of his quarry from so far.

So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit/Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste/Brought death into the world, and all our woe,/With loss of Eden, till one greater Man/Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,/Sing heavenly muse