Paradiſe loſt.
Book 1.
Rifl'd the bowels of thir mother EarthFor Treaſures better hid. Soon had his crewOp'nd into the Hill a ſpacious woundAnd dig'd out ribs of Gold. Let none admire 690That riches grow in Hell; that ſoyle may beſtDeſerve the pretious bane. And here let thoſeWho boaſt in mortal things, and wondring tellOf Babel, and the works of Memphian Kings,Learn how their greateſt Monuments of Fame,And Strength and Art, are eaſily outdoneBy Spirits reprobate, and in an hourWhat in an age they with inceſſant toyleAnd hands innumerable ſcarce perform.Nigh on the Plain in many cells prepar'd, 700That underneath had veins of liquid fireSluc'd from the Lake, a ſecond multitudeWith wondrous Art founded the maſſie Ore,Severing each kinde, and ſcum'd the Bullion droſs:A third as ſoon had form'd within the groundA various mould, and from the boyling cellsBy ſtrange conveyance fill'd each hollow nook,As in an Organ from one blaſt of windTo many a row of Pipes the ſound-board breaths.A non out of the earth a Fabrick huge 710Roſe like an Exhalation, with the ſoundOf Dulcet Symphonies and voices ſweet,Built like a Temple, where Pilaſters roundWere ſet, and Doric pillars overlaidWith Golden Architrave; nor did there wantCornice or Freeze, with boſſy Sculptures grav'n,The Roof was fretted Gold. Not Babilon,Nor great Alcairo ſuch magnificence
Equal'd
