tary hours conning over as many
lines of the great poem as his memory could store, until one of his
friends arrived, and relieved him by taking the staazas down. Frequently
his nephew, Edward Philips, performed this task for him. To him Milton
was in the habit of showing his work as it advanced, and Philips
states he found it frequently required correction in orthography and
punctuation, by reason of the various hands which had written it. As
summer advanced, he was no longer favoured by a sight of the poem;
inquiring the reason of which, Milton told him "his vein never happily
flowed but from the autumnal equinox to the vernal; and that whatever
he attempted at other times was never to his satisfaction, though he
courted his fancy never so much."

In the year 1665 "Paradise Lost" was completed, but no steps were taken
towards its publication, as the author, in company with his neighbours,
fled from the dreaded plague. The following year the citizens were
harassed by losses sustained from the great fire, so that Milton did not
seek to dispose of his poem until 1667; when, on the 27th of April, it
was sold to Samuel Simmons, a publisher residing in Aldersgate Street.
The agreement entered into stated Milton should receive an immediate
payment of five pounds, with the stipulation that he should be given an
equal sum on sale of thirteen hundred copies of the first edition, and
five pounds on disposal of the same number of the second edition, and
yet five pounds more after another such sale of the third edition.
Each edition was to number fifteen hundred books. Two years after the
publication of "Paradise Lost," its author received the second payment
of five pounds; five years later a third payment was made him; before
the fourth fell due his life had been set free from care.

From the first his poem had come in contact with a few receptive minds,
and borne the blessed fruit of appreciation. Richardson recounts that
Sir John Denham, a poet and man of culture, one morning brought a
sheet of the great epic fresh from the press to his friend Sir George
Hungerford. "Why, what have you there?" asked the latter. "Part of the
noblest poem that was ever written in any, language or in any age," said
Sir John, as he laid the pages before him. And a few weeks later my Lord
Dorset, looking over a bookstall in Little Britain, found a copy of this
work, which he opened carelessly at first, until he met some passages
which struck him wit