My sentence is for open War: Of Wiles,
               More inexpert, I boast not: them let those
               Contrive who need, or when they need, not now.
               For while they sit contriving, shall the rest,
               Millions that stand in Arms, and longing wait
               The Signal to ascend, sit lingering here
               Heavens fugitives, and for their dwelling place
               Accept this dark opprobrious Den of shame,
               The Prison of his Tyranny who Reigns
               By our delay? no, let us rather choose
               Armed with Hell flames and fury all at once
               O'er Heavens high Towers to force resistless way,
               Turning our Tortures into horrid Arms
               Against the Torturer; when to meet the noise
               Of his Almighty Engine he shall hear
               Infernal Thunder, and for Lightning see 
               
               Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
               Among his Angels; and his Throne it self
               Mixed with Tartarean Sulphur, and strange fire,
               His own invented Torments.  But perhaps
               The way seems difficult and steep to scale
               With upright wing against a higher foe.
               Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench
               Of that forgetful Lake benumm not still,
               That in our proper motion we ascend
               Up to our native seat: descent and fall
               To us is adverse.  Who but felt of late
               When the fierce Foe hung on our broken Rear
               Insulting, and pursued us through the Deep,
               With what compulsion and laborious flight
               We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then;
               The event is feared; should we again provoke
               Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find
               To our destruction: if there be in Hell
               Fear to be worse destroyed: what can be worse
               Then to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned
               In this abhorred deep to utter woe;
               Where pain of inextinguishable fire
               Must exercise us without hope of end
               The Vassals of his anger, when the Scourge
               Inexorably, and the torturing hour
               Calls us to Penance? More destroyed then thus
               We should be quite abolished and expire.
               What fear we then? what doubt we to incense
               His utmost ire? which to the height enraged,
               Will either quite consume us, and reduce
               To nothing this essential, happier far
               Then miserable to have eternal being:
               Or if our substance be indeed Divine,
               And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 
               
               On this side nothing; and by proof we feel
               Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven,
               And with perpetual inroads to Alarm,
               Though inaccessible, his fatal Throne:
               Which if not Victory is yet Revenge.