Paradise Lost Ill-Gained

Second in a series of tidbits I picked and (mis)took up listening to a free recording of Paradise Lost.

All but the wakeful nightingale,
To know no more is woman's happiest knowledge:
Blown up with high conceits
Up he starts,
Answering scorn with scorn.
Felt how aweful goodness is,
Your glory will be won or else be lost.
Unlicensed from his bonds in hell,
All hell breaks loose.
O sacred name the faithful is profaned,
Lest on the threshing floor his hoped for sheaves prove chaff,
Where thou art weighed and showed how light,
Airy light from pure digestion bred,
Heaven's last best gift.
Why sleepst thou Eve? Now is the pleasant time.
His dewy locks distilled ambrosia,
He plucked, he tasted,
Could not help but taste--
Best image of myself and dearer half,
So all was cleared,
Duly paid in various style,
Rising or falling still advances praise
Among sweet dews
To check fruitless embraces,
To adorn his barren leaves,
To respite his day labor with repast or with repose.
Nor delayed the winged saint,
Self-opened wide on golden hinges turning,
Not disrelish,
By disburdening grows more fruitful
And superfluous moist consumes.
Not to mix tastes,
Pressed she tempers dulcet creams,
Grooms besmeared with gold;
But Eve undecked--
Thus began our author.