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Of threescore and ten thousand Ifraelites
So spake Israel's true king, and to the Fiend
The end of the Third Book.
The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,
Discover'd in his fraud, thrown from his hope So oft, and the persuasive rhetoric That fleek'd his tongue, and won so much on Eve, s So little here, nay lost; but Eve was Eve, This far his over-match, who self-deceiv'd And rash, before-hand had no better weigh'd The strength' he was to cope with, or his
own : But as a man who had been matchless held In cunning, over-reach'd where least he thought, To falve his credit, and for very spite, Still will be tempting him who foils him still, And never cease, though to his shame the more ; . Or as a swarm of flies in vintage time,
IS About the wine-press where sweet must is pour d, Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound; Or surging waves against a solid rock, Though all to shivers dash’d, th' assault renew, Vain batt'ry, and in froth or bubbles end ; So Satan, whom repulse upon repulse Met ever, and to shameful silence brought, Yet gives not o'er though desp'rate of success, And his vain importunity pursues. He brought our Saviour to the western side