The Adamus exul of Grotius; or The Prototype of Paradise Lost — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

Adam. Eve. Adam. ADAMUS EXUL. The author of your infamy. Ah! why Resist—why hesitate? Avenge yourself— Prepare for the sweet sacrifice. Your heart Requires a little hardening, and your hand Is not yet quite familiarised enough With blood. Be quick—I‘ll brook no long delay— Or with my woman's hand will I tear out My more than woman’s heart. Though false to God, True, aye, most true to thee, I do deserve The fate which I solicit well thou knowest. And if the thunder-grasping hand of Him Who made and can annihilate should hurl His three-forked corruscating thunder-bolt All crashing on my head, I should not half Atone the unforgiveable damned crime. O impious Eve! why hesitate to die? Was 't not enough to sin thyself, not make Thy innocent lover sinful, and in him Destroy thy unborn progeny? At least, Let me who first transgression did essay Find the first privilege and proof of death, So justly due. However miserable The mortal pang may be, no day shall then Behold me widowed, and no night repeat The echo of my mourning and despair. Nay, my sweet Eve, ’tis mine to show the way To the dark gulph, and first to brave whate’er Of grim or terrible besets the gates That ever open stand to those that seek Mortality. I therefore will die first, Who cannot live without thee, and then thou, If so thy heart incline; and we will sleep The last long sleep together, in the shade Of that disastrous tree, whose fruit to gain All things were lost but misery and despair. Alas | what noise is that? How is it with us When every sound affrights? Methinks I hear A noise of distant hurricanes at war ; The rush of their invisible combat swells And hurtles thro’ the air. A hollow din Of. ominous, dirge-like thunder howls aloft ; And as it comes reverberating down The many-spheréd firmament, a strange And impotent horror thrills the aching nerve Of intense expectation. Lo! the trees Nod their huge heads around us, and the floods Lift up their deep-toned murmurs wailingly ! The guilt-avenging God, whom most we dread, Is hastening in his swift omnipotence To crush and to consume us. Let us fly COL @ DOO <S (CO