But God, who caused a fountain at thy prayer From the dry ground to spring, thy thirst to allay Cause light again within thy eyes to spring, Wherewith to serve him better than thou hast. And I persuade me so; why else this strength Nor shall his wondrous gifts be frustrate thus. SAMSON. All otherwise to me my thoughts portend; That these dark orbs no more shall treat with light, Nor the other light of life continue long, But yield to double darkness nigh at hand: So much I feel my genial spirits droop, My hopes all flat, Nature within me seems Believe not these suggestions, which proceed 590 Θεὸς δ ̓, ὁ κρήνην ἐκ χθονὸς ξηρᾶς τὸ πρὶν σοῦ προσκαλοῦντος, τήν τε σὴν δίψαν σβέσας, ἢ κάρτα τούτοις ἅπερ ἐγὼ μαντεύομαι ΜΑΝΩΣ. σὺ δ ̓ οὐκ ἂν ὀρθῶς τῶνδέ γ ̓ ἔννοιαν τρέφοις, 600 610 From anguish of the mind and humours black, 600 That mingle with thy fancy. I, however, Must not omit a father's timely care To prosecute the means of thy deliverance, By ransom or how else. Mean while be calm, And healing words from these thy friends admit. SAMSON. Oh! that torment should not be confined 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, There exercise all his fierce accidents, And on her purest spirits prey, As on entrails, joints, and limbs, With answerable pains, but more intense, Though void of corporal sense. My griefs not only pain me As a lingering disease, 610 τὴν δηξιθύμων ἐκπεφυκυῖαν παθῶν μελαγχόλων τε τῆς φρενὸς φαντασμάτων ἐμοὶ δὲ δεῖ, λύτροισιν εἴτ ̓ ἄλλῳ τρόπῳ, ἐλευθεροῦν σε, καιρίαν σπουδὴν πατρί· τὰ μὲν παρόντα στέρξον εὐκήλῳ φρενί, δέχου δὲ μύθους τῶν φίλων θελκτηρίους. ΣΑΜΨΩΝ. φεύ, φεῦ, τάδε μὴ 'ν κραδίαις καὶ στήθεσι καὶ κεφαλαῖς μόναις πεσόντα ἀνάριθμα μελῶν ἄχη, ψυχᾶς βάθος ἄγνωστον κρυφαίαις εἰσόδοις ἐπελθεῖν, ὅσ ̓ ἔνεστιν καθαρώτατα στρεβλοῦντ ̓ αἰνοτάταις δύαις, οὐδ ̓ ὀδύναις μόνον ὡς χρονίας νόσου δέδηγμαι· 620 630 F But, finding no redress, ferment and rage; Nor less than wounds immedicable Rankle, and fester, and gangrene, To black mortification, Thoughts, my tormentors, armed with deadly stings, Mangle my apprehensive tenderest parts, Exasperate, exulcerate, and raise Dire inflammation, which no cooling herb Or medicinal liquor can assuage, Nor breath of vernal air from snowy Alp. 620 Sleep hath forsook and given me o'er To death's benumbing opium as my only cure; 630 Thence faintings, swoonings of despair, And sense of Heaven's desertion. I was His nursling once, and choice delight, His destined from the womb, |