except during the plague, in 1665, when he retired with his
family to St. Giles's Chalfont Buckinghamshire, at which time his
Paradise Lost was finished, tho' not published till 1667. Mr. Philips
observes, that the subject of that poem was first designed for a
tragedy, and in the fourth book of the poem, says he, there are ten
verses, which, several years before the poem was begun, were shewn to
me, and some others, as designed for the very beginning of the
tragedy. The verses are,

O thou that with surpassing glory crown'd
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the god,
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
Which brings to my remembrance, from what state
I fell; how glorious once above thy sphere,
'Till pride, and worse ambition, threw me down,
Warring in Heaven, 'gainst Heav'ns matchless King.

Mr. Philips further observes, that there was a very remarkable
circumstance in the composure of Paradise Lost, which, says he, 'I
have particular reason to remember, for whereas I had the perusal of
it from the very beginning, for some years, as I went from time to
time to visit him, in a parcel of ten, twenty, or thirty verses at a
time, which being written by whatever hand came next, might possibly
want correction, as to the orthography and pointing; having, as the
summer came on, not been shewn any for a considerable while, and
desiring the reason thereof, was answered, that his vein never happily
flowed but from the autumnal equinox to the vernal, and that whatever
he attempted at other times, was never to his satisfaction, though he
courted his fancy never so much; so that in all the years he was about
his poem, he may be said to have spent but half his time therein.'[3]
Mr. Toland imagines that Mr. Philips must be mistaken in regard to the
time, since Milton, in his Latin Elegy upon the Approach of the
Spring, declares the contrary, and that his poetic talent returned
with the spring. This is a point, as it is not worth contending, so it
never can be settled; no poet ever yet could tell when the poetic vein
would flow; and as no man can make verses, unless the inclination be
present, so no man, can be certain how long it will continue, for if
there is any inspiration now amongst men, it is that which the poet
feels, at least the sudden starts, and flashes of f