Classic Poem

The Porter to th' infernall gate is Sin,
A shapeless shape, a foule deformed thing,
Nor nothing, nor a substance: as those thin
And empty formes, which through the ayer fling
Their wandring shapes, at length they're fastned in
The Chrystall sight. It serves, yet reignes as King:
It lives, yet's death: it pleases, full of paine:
Monster! ah who, who can thy being feigne?
Thou shapeless shape, live death, paine pleasing, servile raigne.

Of that first woman, and th' old serpent bred,
By lust and custome nurst; whom when her mother
Saw so deform'd, how faine would she have fled
Her birth, and selfe! But she her dam would smother,
And all her brood, had not He rescued
Who was his mothers sire, his childrens brother;
Eternitie, who yet was borne and died:
His owne Creatour, earths scorne, heavens pride,
Who th' Deitie inflesht, and mans flesh deified.

Her former parts her mother seemes resemble,
Yet onely seemes to flesh and weaker sight;
For she with art and paint could fine dissemble
Her loathsome face: her back parts (blacke as night)
Like to her horrid Sire would force to tremble
The boldest heart; to th' eye that meetes her right
She seemes a lovely sweet, of beauty rare;
But at the parting, he that shall compare,
Hell will more lovely deem, the divel's selfe more faire.
…

Close by her sat Despaire, sad ghastly Spright,
With staring lookes, unmoov'd, fast nayl'd to Sinne;
Her body all of earth, her soule of fright,
About her thousand deaths, but more within:
Pale, pined cheeks, black hayre, torne, rudely dight;
Short breath, long nayles, dull eyes, sharp-pointed chin:
Light, life, heaven, earth, her selfe, and all shee fled.
Fayne would she die, but could not: yet halfe dead,
A breathing corse she seem'd, wrap't up in living lead.
…

The mid'st, but lowest (in hells heraldry
The deepest is the highest roome) in state
Sat Lordly Lucifer: his fiery eye,
Much swol'ne with pride, but more with rage, and hate,
As Censour, muster'd all his company;
Who round about with awefull silence sate.
This doe, this let rebellious Spirits gaine,
Change God for Satan, heaven's for hells Sov'raigne:
O let him serve in hell, who scornes in heaven to raigne!

Ah wretch, who with ambitious cares opprest,
Long'st still for future, feel'st no present good:
Despising to be better, would'st be best,
Good never; who wilt serve thy lusting mood,
Yet all command: not he, who rais'd his crest,
But pull'd it downe, hath high and firmely stood.
Foole, serve thy towring lusts, grow still, still crave,
Rule, raigne, this comfort from thy greatness have,
Now at thy top, Thou art a great commanding slave.

Thus fell this Prince of darkness, once a bright
And glorious starre: he wilfull turn'd away
His borrowed globe from that eternall light:
Himselfe he sought, so lost himselfe: his ray
Vanish't to smoke, his morning sunk in night,
And never more shall see the springing day:
To be in heaven the second he disdaines:
So now the first in hell, and flames he raignes,
Crown'd once with joy, and light: crown'd now with fire and paines.