John Milton

To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:

Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.

Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.

Long is the way

And hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light.

The low'ring element

Scowls o'er the darken'd landscape.

The palpable obscure.

For who can yet believe, though after loss,

That all these puissant legions, whose exile

Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re-ascend,

Self-raised, and repossess their native seat?

Spirits when they please

Can either sex assume, or both.

What though the field be lost?

All is not lost; th’ unconquerable will,

And study of revenge, immortal hate,

And courage never to submit or yield.

Thus Belial with words clothed in reason's garb

Counseled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth,

Not peace.

That in our proper motion we ascend

Up to our native seat: descent and fall

To us is adverse.

Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks

In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades

High over-arch'd imbower.

Unrespited, unpitied, unrepriev'd.