My self, my Sepulcher, a moving Grave,
  Buried, yet not exempt
  By priviledge of death and burial
  From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs,
  But made hereby obnoxious more
  To all the miseries of life,
  Life in captivity
  Among inhuman foes.
  But who are these? for with joint pace I hear
  The tread of many feet stearing this way;
  Perhaps my enemies who come to stare
  At my affliction, and perhaps to insult,
  Thir daily practice to afflict me more.
    Chor. This, this is he; softly a while,
  Let us not break in upon him;
  O change beyond report, thought, or belief!
  See how he lies at random, carelessly diffus'd,
  With languish't head unpropt,
  As one past hope, abandon'd
  And by himself given over;
  In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds
  O're worn and soild;
  Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be hee,
  That Heroic, that Renown'd,
  Irresistible Samson? whom unarm'd
  No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast could withstand;
  Who tore the Lion, as the Lion tears the Kid,
  Ran on embattelld Armies clad in Iron,
  And weaponless himself,
  Made Arms ridiculous, useless the forgery
  Of brazen shield and spear, the hammer'd Cuirass,
  Chaly bean temper'd steel, and frock of mail
  Adamantean Proof;
  But safest he who stood aloof,
  When insupportably his foot advanc't,
  In scorn of thir proud arms and warlike tools,
  Spurn'd them to death by Troops. The bold Ascalonite
  Fled from his Lion ramp, old Warriors turnd
  Their plated backs under his heel;
  Or grovling soiled the crested helmets in the dust.
  Then with what trivial weapon came to hand,
  The jaw of a dead Ass, his sword of bone,
  A thousand fore-skins fell, the flower of Palestin
  In Ramath-lechi famous to this day:
  Then by main force pull'd up, and on his shoulders bore
  The Gates of Azza, Post, and massie Bar
  Up to the Hill by Hebron, seat of Giants old,
  No journey of a Sabbath day, and loaded so;
  Like whom the Gentiles feign to bear up Heav'n.
  Which shall I first bewail,
  Thy Bondage or lost Sight,
  Prison within Prison
  Inseparably dark?
  Thou art become (O worst imprisonment!
  The Dungeon of thy self; thy Soul
  (Which Men enjoying sight oft without cause complain)
  Imprison'd now indeed,
  In real darkness of the body dwells,
  Shut up from outward light
  To incorporate with gloomy night;
  For inward light alas
  Puts forth no visual beam.
  O mirror of our fickle state,
  Since man on earth unparallel'd!
  The rarer thy example stands,
  By how much from the top of wondrous glory,
  Strongest of mortal men,
  To lowest pitch of abject fortune thou art fall'n.
  For him I reckon not in high estate
  Whom long descent of birth
  Or the sphear of fortune raises;
  But thee whose strength, while vertue was her mate
  Might have subdu'd the Earth,
  Universally crown'd with highest praises.
    Sam. I hear the sound of words, thir sense the air
  Dissolves unjointed e're it reach my ear.
    Chor. Hee speaks, let us draw nigh. Matchless in might,
  The glory late of Israel, now the grief;
  We come thy friends and neighbours not unknown
  From Eshtaol and Zora's fruitful Vale
  To visit or bewail thee, or if better,
  Counsel or Consolation we may bring,
  Salve to thy Sores, apt words have power to swage
  The tumors of a troubl'd mind,
  And are as Balm to fester'd wounds.
    Sam. Your coming, Friends, revives me, for I learn
  Now of my own experience, not by talk,
  How counterfeit a coin they are who friends
  Bear in their Superscription (of the most
  I would be understood) in prosperous days
  They swarm, but in adverse withdraw their head
  Not to be found, though sought. Yee see, O friends,
  How many evils have enclos'd me round;
  Yet that which was the worst now least afflicts me,
  Blindness, for had I sight, confus'd with shame,
  How could I once look up, or heave the head,
  Who like a foolish Pilot have shipwrack't,
  My Vessel trusted to me from above,
  Gloriously rigg'd; and for a word, a tear,
  Fool, have divulg'd the secret gift of God