“A good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.” ― John Milton

Milton's 17th century epic poem are accompanied by visuals and music. music by Matt Peterson  (solo piano, from "The Paradise Suite"), Craig Armstrong ("Escape") and John Debney (from "The Passion Of The Christ" soundtrack)

Paradise Lost: Book  1 (1674 version)

BY JOHN MILTON

OF Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit 

Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast 

Brought Death into the World, and all our woe, 

With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 

Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat, 

Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top 

Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire 

That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed, 

In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth 

Rose out of Chaos: or if Sion Hill 

Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flow'd 

Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence 

Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song, 

That with no middle flight intends to soar 

Above th' Aonian Mount, while it pursues 

Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime. 

And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 

Before all Temples th' upright heart and pure, 

Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first 

Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread 

Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss 

And mad'st it pregnant: What in me is dark 

Illumin, what is low raise and support; 

That to the highth of this great Argument 

I may assert Eternal Providence, 

And justifie the wayes of God to men. 

Say first, for Heav'n hides nothing from thy view 

Nor the deep Tract of Hell, say first what cause 

Mov'd our Grand Parents in that happy State, 

Favour'd of Heav'n so highly, to fall off 

From thir Creator, and transgress his Will 

For one restraint, Lords of the World besides? 

Who first seduc'd them to that foul revolt? 

Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile 

Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv'd 

The Mother of Mankind, what time his Pride 

Had cast him out from Heav'n, with all his Host 

Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring 

To set himself in Glory above his Peers, 

He trusted to have equal'd the most High, 

If he oppos'd; and with ambitious aim 

Against the Throne and Monarchy of God 

Rais'd impious War in Heav'n and Battel proud 

With vain attempt.   Him the Almighty Power 

Hurld headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Skie 

With hideous ruine and combustion down 

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 

In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire, 

Who durst defie th' Omnipotent to Arms. 

Nine times the Space that measures Day and Night 

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 

Lay vanquisht, rowling in the fiery Gulfe 

Confounded though immortal: But his doom 

Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought 

Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 

Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes 

That witness'd huge affliction and dismay 

Mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate: 

At once as far as Angels kenn he views 

The dismal Situation waste and wilde, 

A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round 

As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames 

No light, but rather darkness visible 

Serv'd onely to discover sights of woe, 

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 

And rest can never dwell, hope never comes 

That comes to all; but torture without end 

Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed 

With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum'd: 

Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd 

For those rebellious, here thir prison ordained 

In utter darkness, and thir portion set 

As far remov'd from God and light of Heav'n 

As from the Center thrice to th' utmost Pole. 

O how unlike the place from whence they fell! 

There the companions of his fall, o'rewhelm'd 

With Floods and Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, 

He soon discerns, and weltring by his side 

One next himself in power, and next in crime, 

Long after known in Palestine, and nam'd 

Beelzebub.   To whom th' Arch-Enemy, 

And thence in Heav'n call'd Satan, with bold words 

Breaking the horrid silence thus began. 

If thou beest he; But O how fall'n! how chang'd 

From him, who in the happy Realms of Light 

Cloth'd with transcendent brightness didst out-shine 

Myriads though bright: If he whom mutual league, 

United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 

And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize, 

Joynd with me once, now misery hath joynd 

In equal ruin: into what Pit thou seest 

From what highth fall'n, so much the stronger prov'd 

He with his Thunder: and till then who knew 

The force of those dire Arms?   yet not for those, 

Nor what the Potent Victor in his rage 

Can else inflict, do I repent or change, 

Though chang'd in outward lustre; that fixt mind 

And high disdain, from sence of injur'd merit, 

That with the mightiest rais'd me to contend, 

And to the fierce contention brought along 

Innumerable force of Spirits arm'd 

That durst dislike his reign, and me preferring, 

His utmost power with adverse power oppos'd 

In dubious Battel on the Plains of Heav'n, 

And shook his throne.   What though the field be lost? 

All is not lost; the unconquerable Will, 

And study of revenge, immortal hate, 

And courage never to submit or yield: 

And what is else not to be overcome? 

That Glory never shall his wrath or might 

Extort from me.   To bow and sue for grace 

With suppliant knee, and deifie his power, 

Who from the terrour of this Arm so late 

Doubted his Empire, that were low indeed, 

That were an ignominy and shame beneath 

This downfall; since by Fate the strength of Gods 

And this Empyreal substance cannot fail, 

Since through experience of this great event 

In Arms not worse, in foresight much advanc't, 

We may with more successful hope resolve 

To wage by force or guile eternal Warr 

Irreconcileable, to our grand Foe, 

Who now triumphs, and in th' excess of joy 

Sole reigning holds the Tyranny of Heav'n. 

So spake th' Apostate Angel, though in pain, 

Vaunting aloud, but rackt with deep despare: 

And him thus answer'd soon his bold Compeer. 

John Milton (9 December 1608 – 8 November 1674) was an English poet, polemicist, man of letters, and a civil servant for the Commonwealth of England under Oliver Cromwell. He wrote at a time of religious flux and political upheaval, and is best known for his epic poem Paradise Lost (1667), written in blank verse.
Milton’s poetry and prose reflect deep personal convictions, a passion for freedom and self-determination, and the urgent issues and political turbulence of his day. Writing in English, Latin, Greek, and Italian, he achieved international renown within his lifetime, and his celebrated Areopagitica (1644)—written in condemnation of pre-publication censorship—is among history’s most influential and impassioned defences of free speech and freedom of the press.
William Hayley’s 1796 biography called him the “greatest English author,” and he remains generally regarded “as one of the preeminent writers in the English language,” though critical reception has oscillated in the centuries since his death (often on account of his republicanism).
Milton’s poetry was slow to see the light of day, at least under his name. His first published poem was On Shakespear (1630), anonymously included in the Second Folio edition of William Shakespeare. In the midst of the excitement attending the possibility of establishing a new English government, Milton collected his work in 1645 Poems. The anonymous edition of Comus was published in 1637, and the publication of Lycidas in 1638 in Justa Edouardo King Naufrago was signed J. M. Otherwise, the 1645 collection was the only poetry of his to see print, until Paradise Lost appeared in 1667.

source: https://courses.lumenlearning.com/britlit1/chapter/john-milton-biography/