Of birth from Heaven foretold, and high exploits, The sons of Anak, famous now and blaz'd, I walk'd about admir'd of all and dreaded Chorus. Desire of wine and all delicious drinks, flow'd Against the eastern ray, translucent, pure Whose heads that turbulent liquor fills with fumes. Chorus. O madness, to think use of strongest wines And strongest drinks our chief support of health, When God with these forbidd'n made choice to rear His mighty champion, strong above compare, Whose drink was only from the liquid brook. Samson. But what avail'd this temperance, not complete Against another object more enticing? What boots it at one gate to make defence, And at another to let in the foe, Effeminately vanquish'd? by which means, Now blind, dishearten'd, sham'd, dishonour'd, quell'd, To what can I be useful, wherein serve My nation, and the work from Heaven impos'd, To a contemptible old age obscure? Here rather let me drudge, and earn my bread; * Till vermin, or the draff of servile food, Consume me, and oft-invocated death Hasten the welcome end of all my pains. Manoah. Wilt thou then serve the Philistines with that gift Which was expressly given thee to annoy them? Cause light again within thy eyes to spring, That these dark orbs no more shall treat with light, But yield to double darkness nigh at hand: Manoah. Believe not these suggestions, which proceed From anguish of the mind and humours black, That mingle with thy fancy. I however By ransom, or how else: mean while be calin, [Exit.] Samson. O that Torment should not be confin'd To the body's wounds and sores, With maladies innumerable In heart, head, breast, and reins; But must secret passage find To the inmost mind, Their exercise all his fierce accidents, And on her purest spirits prey, As on entrails, joints, and limbs, With answerable pains, but inore intense, Though void of corporal sense. My griefs not only pain me As a lingering disease, But, finding no redress, ferment and rage; Nor less than wounds immedicable Rankle, and fester, and gangrene, To black mortification. Thoughts, my tormenters, arm'd with deadly stings, Mangle my apprehensive tenderest parts, Exasperate, exulcerate, and raise Dire inflammation, which no cooling herb Nor breath of vernal air from snowy Alp, To death's benumming opium as my only cure: And sense of Heaven's desertion. I was his nursling once, and choice delight, His destin'd from the womb, Promis'd by heavenly message twice descending. Under his special eye Abstemious I grew up, and thriv'd amain; He led me on to mightiest deeds, Against the uncircumcis'd, our enemies : Whom I by his appointment had provok'd, The close of all my miseries, and the balm. |