The Adamus exul of Grotius; or The Prototype of Paradise Lost — page 50: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A TRAGEDY.—ACT IV: Against thy proper nature. All that charms And gratulates is lawful. Thy own sense Prompts to the deed ; wage not-unnatural war Against thyself. Nature, our common nurse, Our general mother, gave all living kinds Their senses, that by outward forms and shows The hidden intimate properties of things Might clearly be discerned ; and appetite Is her own best instructress. She desires All profitable pleasures ; noxious things Instinctively rejects. This secret test Works warily, nor rashly deviates From its distinctive purpose. Whatsoever It likes or fancies, colour, taste, or smell, Think amicable to nature. For all these Do draw the delicate passion of delight Right to its ultimate ravishment of joy. Use their soft guidance now—approach the tree And pluck the golden fruit. Well, thou hast done The bold ‘work bravely, now no more remains But just to taste, it is the smallest thing Which makes thee greatest. Does it like thee well ? Eve. O sweet, sweet apple! how thy glittering store Dazzles my eyes——the inebriating scent Fills all my sense. Would I could lay aside All fear—that trembling folly—and enjoy The elysium of the fruit, and learn at once Its mystery of bliss. Had I but courage— Less womanly and weak, shrinking—lI would dare Much more, as freely. Does not reason’s self Teach me that mind can never, never die, Whatever chance to dust-compacted forms Of body? Such a law as this declares The envy of the God. He fears, forsooth, To allow me that fine science, which doth make Our soul familiar with all ecstasies, And shield it from all pains. Strong appetite, The quenchless and infallible instinct, prompts Such gallant feats, such noble bazardous strokes Of intellectual gambling. Ah! how now? What spells, what mdefinable horrors creep Along my thrilling limbs! An icy chill Invades the all-conscious nerves. I know not why, And yet I feel I fear. I long to pluck The fruit, and lo, my disobedient hand Faintly accuses its own coward weight, And hesitates the exploit. The magic food Seems from my lips to fly, and thus absorbed In vacant mute astonishment, I stand Shuddering. Methinks the charméd tree itself F (C@ inn @ DOO <S (c@