17

类别:文学名著 作者:约翰·弥尔顿 本章:17

    O miserable of he end [ 720 ]

    Of te

    t Glory, who now becom

    Accurst of blessed, he face

    Of God, wo beh

    Of  well, if here would end [ 725 ]

    t, and would beare

    My o t serve;

    All t I eat or drink, or s,

    Is propagated curse. O voice once heard

    Deligiply, [ 730 ]

    Noo  can I encrease

    Or multiplie, but curses on my head?

    o succeed, but feeling

    t by me, will curse

    My or impure, [ 735 ]

    For t hanks

    Sion; so besides

    Mine o bide upon me, all from mee

    Sh a fierce reflux on mee redound,

    On mee as on tural center light [ 740 ]

    ing joyes

    Of Paradise, deare bouging woes!

    Did I request thee, Maker, from my Clay

    to mould me Man, did I sollicite thee

    From darkness to promote me, or here place [ 745 ]

    In this delicious Garden? as my ill

    Concurd not to my being, it  right

    And equal to reduce me to my dust,

    Desirous to resigne, and render back

    All I receavd, unable to performe [ 750 ]

    terms too o hold

    t not. to t,

    Sufficient penaltie, hou added

    the sense of endless woes? inexplicable

    tice seems; yet to say trutoo late, [ 755 ]

    I test; then should have been refusd

    terms wever, whey were proposd:

    t accept t the good,

    tions? and though God

    Made t t if thy Son [ 760 ]

    Prove disobedient, and reprovd, retort,

    t me? I soug not

    ouldst t for empt of thee

    t proud excuse? yet  tion,

    But Natural necessity begot. [ 765 ]


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