sy--the only evil that walks
Invisible, except to God alone,
By His permissive will, through Heaven and Earth;
And oft, though Wisdom wake, Suspicion sleeps
At Wisdom's gate, and to Simplicity
Resigns her charge, while Goodness thinks no ill
Where no ill seems.

Milton plainly had known hypocrisy, and had been deceived by it. But it
would be difficult to match this reflection with any single other passage
in the whole poem. To say that such reflections are common in Shakespeare
would be too moderate a statement; they are the very air he breathes. And
even in the lesser dramatists the happy embodiment of observation in a
telling figure is to be found on every page. An acute criticism, for
instance, is condensed in a dramatic form by Ford, where he describes
what may be called low politeness--

Smooth formality
Is usher to the rankness of the blood,
But impudence bears up the train.

The peculiar combination of formality and impudence that marks
ill-breeding was never more happily described than in this figure; the
mock solemnity of the usher comes first, and is soon followed by the
grimacing antics of the page, while each in his own way implies that the
advances of courtesy are a pomp and a deceit. Metaphors of the same kind
abound in the work of more modern analytic poets. Here is another parable
of a door-keeper, more poetic than Milton's:--

They say that Pity in Love's service dwells,
A porter at the rosy temple's gate.
I missed him going; but it is my fate
To come upon him now beside his wells;
Whereby I know that I Love's temple leave,
And that the purple doors have closed behind.

In Milton's poetry we find ourselves in a remote atmosphere; far indeed
from the shrewd observation of daily life, farther even from that
wonderful analysis of emotion which is the pastime of Shakespeare and of
Meredith. Beautiful figured writing and keen psychological observation of
this kind are beside the purpose of Milton, and beyond his power.

For the time we must forego the attempt to see into the life of things,
and must accept in imagination our position as citizens in this strange
majestic commonwealth of angels and men. It is no mean city. Noble shapes
pass before our eyes. High language is held, and great wars are waged.
Events of tremendous import roll on to their destined accomplishment.
Golden processions move across the dim expanse of Chaos. Worlds are blown
and broke