Now the thought Both of lost happiness and lasting pain. Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes. That witnessed huge affliction and dismay. Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate: At once as far as angels ken he views. The dismal situation waste and wild, A dungeon horrible, on all sides round. As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames. No light, but rather darkness visible. Served only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace. And rest can never dwell, hope never comes. That comes to all; but torture without end. Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed. With ever-burning sulfur unconsumed.
John MiltonAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: english
- Born: December 9, 1608
- Died: November 8, 1674
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Seems," madam? Nay, it is; I know not "seems."'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
William Shakespeare