hstand?

_Angel._ Why was it made so fair, why placed in sight?
Heaven is too good to envy man's delight.
See, we before thy face will try
What thou so fearest, and will not die.
[_The Angel takes the fruit, and gives to the Spirits
who danced; they immediately put off their deformed
shapes, and appear Angels._

_Angel._ [_Singing._]
Behold what a change on a sudden is here!
How glorious in beauty, how bright they appear!
Prom spirits deformed they are deities made,
Their pinions at pleasure the clouds can invade,
[_The Angel gives to the Woman, who eats._
Till equal in honour they rise,
With him who commands in the skies;
Then taste without fear, and be happy and wise.

_Woman._ Ah, now I believe! such a pleasure I find,
As enlightens my eyes, and enlivens my mind.
[_The Spirits, who are turned Angels, fly up when
they have tasted._
I only repent,
I deferred my content.

_Angel._ Now wiser experience has taught you to prove,
What a folly it is,
Out of fear to shun bliss.
To the joy that's forbidden we eagerly move;
It inhances the price, and increases the love.

_Chorus of both._ To the joy, &c.

_Two Angels descend; they take the Woman each by the hand, and fly
up with her out of sight. The Angel who sung, and the Spirits who
held the canopy, at the same instant sink down with the tree._

_Enter_ GABRIEL _and_ ITHURIEL _to_ LUCIFER, _who remains._

_Gab._ What art thou? speak thy name and thy intent.
Why here alone? and on what errand sent?
Not from above; no, thy wan looks betray
Diminished light, and eyes unused to day.

_Lucif._ Not to know me, argues thyself unknown:
Time was, when, shining next the imperial throne,
I sat in awful state; while such as thou
Did in the ignoble crowd at distance bow.

_Gab._ Think'st thou, vain spirit, thy glories are the same?
And seest not sin obscures thy god-like frame?
I know thee now by thy ungrateful pride,
That shews me what thy faded looks did hide,
Traitor to Him who made and set thee high,
And fool, that Power which formed thee to defy.

_Lucif._ Go, slaves, return, and fawn in heaven again:
Seek thanks from him whose quarrel you maintain.
Vile wretches! of your servitude to boast;
You basely keep the place I bravely lost.

_Ithu._ Freedom is choice of what we will and do:
Then blame not servants, who are freely so.