Come Knit Hands, And Beat The Ground

The Angel Ended, And In Adam's Ear So Charming Left His Voice, That He Awhile Thought Him Still Speaking, Still Stood Fix'd To Hear.

Our Two First Parents, Yet The Only Two Of Mankind, In The Happy Garden Placed, Reaping Immortal Fruits Of Joy And Love, Uninterrupted Joy, Unrivalled Love In Blissful Solitude.

Sweet Intercourse Of Looks And Smiles; For Smiles From Reason Flow.

And What The People But A Herd Confus'd, A Miscellaneous Rabble, Who Extol Things Vulgar, And, Well Weigh'd, Scarce Worth The Praise? They Praise, And They Admire, They Know Not What; And Know Not Whom, But As One Leads The Other; And What Delight To Be By Such Extoll'd, To Live Upon Their Tongues, And Be Their Talk, Of Whom To Be Disprais'd Were No Small Praise?

Pandemonium, The High Capital Of Satan And His Peers.