Man. Be penitent and for thy fault contrite,
  But act not in thy own affliction, Son,
  Repent the sin, but if the punishment
  Thou canst avoid, self-preservation bids;
  Or th' execution leave to high disposal,
  And let another hand, not thine, exact
  Thy penal forfeit from thy self; perhaps
  God will relent, and quit thee all his debt;
  Who evermore approves and more accepts
  (Best pleas'd with humble and filial submission)
  Him who imploring mercy sues for life,
  Then who self-rigorous chooses death as due;
  Which argues over-just, and self-displeas'd
  For self-offence, more then for God offended.
  Reject not then what offerd means, who knows
  But God hath set before us, to return the
  Home to thy countrey and his sacred house,
  Where thou mayst bring thy off'rings, to avert
  His further ire, with praiers and vows renew'd.
    Sam. His pardon I implore; but as for life,
  To what end should I seek it? when in strength
  All mortals I excell'd, and great in hopes
  With youthful courage and magnanimous thoughts
  Of birth from Heav'n foretold and high exploits,
  Full of divine instinct, after some proof
  Of acts indeed heroic, far beyond
  The Sons of Anac, famous now and blaz'd,
  Fearless of danger, like a petty God
  I walk'd about admir'd of all and dreaded
  On hostile ground, none daring my affront.
  Then swoll'n with pride into the snare I fell
  Of fair fallacious looks, venereal trains,
  Softn'd with pleasure and voluptuous life;
  At length to lay my head and hallow'd pledge
  Of all my strength in the lascivious lap
  Of a deceitful Concubine who shore me
  Like a tame Weather, all my precious fleece,
  Then turn'd me out ridiculous, despoil'd,
  Shav'n, and disarm'd among my enemies.
    Chor. Desire of wine and all delicious drinks,
  Which many a famous Warriour overturns,
  Thou couldst repress, nor did the dancing Rubie
  Sparkling, out-pow'rd, the flavor, or the smell,
  Or taste that cheers the heart of Gods and men,
  Allure thee from the cool Crystalline stream.
    Sam. Where ever fountain or fresh current flow'd
  Against the Eastern ray, translucent, pure,
  With touch aetherial of Heav'ns fiery rod
  I drank, from the clear milkie juice allaying
  Thirst, and refresht; nor envy'd them the grape
  Whose heads that turbulent liquor fills with fumes.
    Chor. O madness, to think use of strongest wines
  And strongest drinks our chief support of health,
  When God with these forbid'n made choice to rear
  His mighty Champion, strong above compare,
  Whose drink was only from the liquid brook.
    Sam. But what avail'd this temperance, not compleat
  Against another object more
  What boots it at one gate to make defence
  And at another to let in the foe
  Effeminatly vanquish't? by which means,
  Now blind, disheartn'd, sham'd, dishonour'd, quell'd,
  To what can I be useful, wherein serve
  My Nation, and the work from Heav'n impos'd,
  But to sit idle on the houshold hearth,
  A burdenous drone; to visitants a gaze,
  Or pitied object, these redundant locks
  Robustious to no purpose clustring down,
  Vain monument of strength; till length of years
  And sedentary numness craze my limbs
  To a contemptible old age obscure.
  Here rather let me drudge and earn my bread,
  Till vermin or the draff of servil food
  Consume me, and oft-invocated death
  Hast'n the welcom end of all my pains.
    Man. Wilt thou then serve the Philistines with that gift
  Which was expresly giv'n thee to annoy them?
  Better at home lie bed-rid, not only idle,
  Inglorious, unimploy'd, with age out-worn.
  But God who caus'd a fountain at thy prayer
  From the dry ground to spring, thy thirst to allay
  After the brunt of battel, can as easie
  Cause light again within thy eies to spring,
  Wherewith to serve him better then thou hast;
  And I perswade me so; why else this strength
  Miraculous yet remaining in those locks)
  His might continues in thee not for naught,
  Nor shall his wondrous gifts be frustrate thus.
    Sam. All otherwise to me my thoughts portend,
  That these dark orbs no more shall treat with light,
  Nor th' 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
  In all her functions weary of herself;
  My race of glory run, and race of shame,
  And I shall shortly be with them that rest.
    Man. Believe not these suggestions which proceed
  From anguish of the mind and humours black,
  That mingle with thy fancy. I however