Paradise Lost, Book I, Lines 221-270

John Milton

Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime,
Said then the lost Arch-Angel, this the seat
That we must change for Heav'n, this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid
What shall be right: fardest from him is best
Whom reason hath equald, force hath made supream
Above his equals. Farewel happy Fields
Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings
A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time.
The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less then he
Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
Th' associates and copartners of our loss
Lye thus astonisht on th' oblivious Pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy Mansion, or once more
With rallied Arms to try what may be yet
Regaind in Heav'n, or what more lost in Hell?

Poems by This Author

Paradise Lost, Book IV, Lines 639–652 by John Milton
With thee conversing I forget all time
Paradise Lost, Book IV, [The Argument] by John Milton
O for that warning voice, which he who saw
Paradise Lost, Book VI, Lines 801-866 by John Milton
Stand still in bright array, ye Saints; here stand
Lycidas by John Milton
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
On His Deceased Wife by John Milton
Me thought I saw my late espousèd Saint
On Shakespeare by John Milton
What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd Bones
On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity by John Milton
This is the month, and this the happy morn
On Time by John Milton
Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race
Song On May Morning by John Milton
Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger
To the Same by John Milton
Cyriack, this three years’ day these eyes, though clear
When I Consider How My Light Is Spent by John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent,

Further Reading

Related Poems
Paradise Lost, Book IV, [The Argument]
by John Milton
Paradise Lost, Book VI, Lines 801-866
by John Milton