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What but thy malice moved thee to misdeem
No more shalt thou by oracling abuse
So spake our Saviour, but the subtle fiend,
Sharply thou hast insisted on rebuke, And urg'd me hard with doings, which not will But misery hath wrested from me. Where Easily canst thou find one miserable, And not enforced ofttimes to part from truth, If it may stand him more in stead to lie, Say and unsay, feign, flatter, or abjure? But thou art placed above me, thou art Lord; From thee I can, and must, submiss, endure Check or reproof, and glad to 'scape so quit. Hard are the ways of truth, and rough to walk, Smooth on the tongue discours’d, pleasing to the And tuneable as sylvan pipe or song: [ear, What wonder then if I delight to hear Her dictates from thy mouth? Most men admire Virtue, who follow not her lore: permit me To hear thee when I come, (since no man comes, And talk at least, though I despair to attain.
Thy Father, who is holy, wise, and pure,
To whom our Saviour, with unalter'd brow:
He added not; and Satan, bowing low His gray dissimulation, disappear'd Into thin air diffus’d: for now began Night with her sullen wing to double shade The desert; fowls in their clay nests were couch'd; And now wild beasts came forth the woods to
END OF BOOK I.