eings with immortal hate;
And, hopeless to prevail by open force,
Seeks hid advantage to betray us worse;
Which when asunder will not prove so hard;
For both together are each other's guard.

_Eve._ Since he, by force, is hopeless to prevail,
He can by fraud alone our minds assail:
And to believe his wiles my truth can move,
Is to misdoubt my reason, or my love.

_Adam._ Call it my care, and not mistrust of thee;
Yet thou art weak, and full of art is he;
Else how could he that host seduce to sin,
Whose fall has left the heavenly nation thin?

_Eve._ I grant him armed with subtilty and hate;
But why should we suspect our happy state?
Is our perfection of so frail a make,
As every plot can undermine or shake?
Think better both of heaven, thyself, and me:
Who always fears, at ease can never be.
Poor state of bliss, where so much care is shown,
As not to dare to trust ourselves alone!

_Adam._ Such is our state, as not exempt from fall;
Yet firm, if reason to our aid we call:
And that, in both, is stronger than in one;
I would not,--why would'st thou, then, be alone?

_Eve._ Because, thus warned, I know myself secure,
And long my little trial to endure,
To approve my faith, thy needless fears remove,
Gain thy esteem, and so deserve thy love.
If all this shake not thy obdurate will,
Know that, even present, I am absent still:
And then what pleasure hop'st thou in my stay,
When I'm constrained, and wish myself away?

_Adam._ Constraint does ill with love and beauty suit;
I would persuade, but not be absolute.
Better be much remiss, than too severe;
If pleased in absence thou wilt still be here.
Go; in thy native innocence proceed,
And summon all thy reason at thy need.

_Eve._ My soul, my eyes delight! in this I find
Thou lov'st; because to love is to be kind. [_Embracing him._
Seeking my trial, I am still on guard:
Trials, less sought, would find us less prepared.
Our foe's too proud the weaker to assail,
Or doubles his dishonour if he fail. [_Exit._

_Adam._ In love, what use of prudence can there be?
More perfect I, and yet more powerful she.
Blame me not, heaven; if thou love's power hast tried,
What could be so unjust to be denied?
One look of hers my resolution breaks;
Reason itself turns folly when she speaks:
And awed by her, whom it was made to sway,
Flatters her power, and does its own betray. [_Exit._

_The middle part of the Garden is re