Art thou that Traitor Angel, art thou he,
               Who first broke peace in Heaven and Faith, till then
               Unbroken, and in proud rebellious Arms
               Drew after him the third part of Heavens Sons
               Conjured against the highest, for which both Thou
               And they outcast from God, are here condemned
               To waste Eternal days  some copies have days  in woe and pain?
               And reckons thou thy self with Spirits of Heaven,
               Hell-doomed, and breath defiance here and scorn
               Where I reign King, and to enrage thee more,
               Thy King and Lord? Back to thy punishment,
               False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings,
               Least with a whip of Scorpions I pursue
               Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this Dart
               Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before.
 Go whither Fate and inclination
strong
               Leads thee, I shall not lag behind, nor err
               The way, thou leading, such a sent I draw
               Of carnage, prey innumerable, and taste
               The savour of Death from all things there that live:
               Nor shall I to the work thou enterprisest
               Be wanting, but afford thee equal aid.
 To me, who with eternal Famine
pine,
               Alike is Hell, or Paradise, or Heaven,
               There best, where most with ravine I may meet;
               Which here, though plenteous, all too little seems
               To stuff this Maw, this vast unhide-bound Corps.