Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.

Hence, loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground.

Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.

Knowledge forbidden? Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord Envy them that? Can it be a sin to know? Can it be death?

Pandemonium, the high capital Of Satan and his peers.