Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

They make a feast. And then to crowne
Their mirth, blind Samson is brought thither:
He pulls the mighty Pillers downe;
The Building falls: All slaine together.

Thus when the vulgar Triumph (which does last
But seldome, longer then the newes) was past,
And Dagons holy Altars had surccast
To breath their idle fumes: they call'd a feast,
A common Feast; whose bounty did bewray
A common joy, to gratulate the day;
Whereto, the Princes, vnder whose command
Each province was, in their diuided land;
Whereto, the Lords, Leiutenants, and all those,
To whom the supreme Rulers did repose
An under-trust; whereto, the better sort
Of gentry, and of Commons did resort,
With mirth, and jolly triumph, to allay
Their sorrowes, and to solemnize the day;
Into the common Hall they come: The Hall
Was large and faire; Her arched roofe was all
Builded with massie stone, and over-lai'd
With pond'rous Lead; Two sturdy Pillers stai'd
Her mighty Rafters up; whereon, relied
The weighty burthen of her lofty pride.
When lusty dyet, and the frollicke cup
Had rouz'd and rais'd their quickned spirits up,

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And brave triumphing Bacchus had displaid
His conquering colours, in their cheeks, they said;
Call Samson forth; He must not worke too day;
Tis a boone feast; Wee'l give him leave to play;
Does be grinde bravely? Does our Mill-horse sweat?
Let him lacke nothing; What he wants in meate,
Empty in lashes; He is strong and stout,
And, with his breathe and drive the Mill about:
It workes too hard, we stare: Goe downe and free him;
“Say, that his Mistresse, Delila would see him:
“The sight of him will take our howers short;
“Goe fetch him then to make our Honours sport:
“Bid him provide some Riddles; Let him bring
“Some song of Triumph: He that's blinde, may sing
“With better boldnesse: Bid him never doubt
“To please: What matter though his eyes be out?
“'Tis no dishonour, that be cannot see;
Tell him, the God of Love's as blinde, as hee:
With that they brought poore Samson to the Hall;
And as he past, he gropes to finde the wall;
His pace was slow, His feet were lifted high;
Each tongue would taunt him Every scornfull eye
Was filld with laughter; Some would cry aloud,
“He walkes in state: His Lordship is growne proud:
Some bid his honour, Haile, whilst others cast
Reproachfull termes upon him; as he past,
Some would salute him fairely, and embrace
His wounded sides, then spit upon his face:
Others would cry; For shame for beare t'abuse
The high and great redeemer of the Iewes:
Some gibe and flout him with their taunts & quips,
With that poore Samson, whose abundant griefe,
Not finding hopes of comfort or reliefe,

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Resolv'd for patience: Turning round, he made
Some shift to feele his Keeper out, and said;

Good Sir, my painfull labour in the Mill
Hath made me bold (although against my will)
To crave some little rest; Jf you will please
To let the Pillour but afford some ease
To my worne limmes, your mercy should relieve
A soule that has no more but thanks, to give:
The keeper yeelded: (Now the Hall was filld
With Princes, and their People, that beheld
Abused Samson; whilst the Roofe retain'd
A leash of thousands more, whose eyes were chain'd
To this sad Object, with a full delight,
To see this flesh-and-blood-relenting sight;
With that the pris'ner turnd himselfe and pray'd
So soft, that none but heaven could heare, and said:

My God, my God: Although my sinnes doe cry
For greater vengeance, yet thy gratious eye
Js full of mercy; O, remember now
The gentle promise and that sacred vow
Thou mad'st to faithfull Abram, and his seed,
O, heare my wounded soule, that has lesse need
Of life, then mercy: Let thy tender eare
Make good thy plenteous promise now, and heare;
See, how thy cursed enemies prevaile
Above my strength; Behold, how poore and fraile
My native power is, and, wanting thee,
What is there, Oh, what is there (Lord) in me?
Nor is it I that suffer: My desert
May challenge greater vengeance, if thou wert
Extreme to punish: Lord, the wrong is thine;
The punishment is just, and onely mine:
I am thy Champion, Lord; It is not me

They strike at; Through my sides they thrust at thee:

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Against thy Glory 'tis, their Malice lies;
“They aim'd at that when they put out these eyes:
“Alas, their blood-bedabl'd hands would flie
“On thee, wert thou but cloth'd in flesh, as I:
“Revenge thy wrongs, great God; O let thy hand
“Redeeme thy suffring honour, and this land:
“Lend me thy power; Renew my wasted strength,
“That I may fight thy battels; and at length,
“Rescue thy glory; that my hands may do
“That faithfull service they were borne unto:
“Lend me thy power, that J may restore
“Thy losse, and I will never urge thee more:
Thus having ended, both his armes he laid,
Upon the pillours of the Hall; and said;
Thus with the Philistines, I resigne my breath;

And let my God finde Glory in my death:
And having spoke, his yeelding body strain'd
Upon those Marble pillours, that sustain'd
The pondrous Roofe; They cracket; and, with their fall,
Downe fell the Battlements, and Roofe, and all;
And, with their ruines, slaughter'd at a blow,
The whole Assembly; They, that were below,
Receiv'd their sudden deaths from those that fell
From off the top; whilst none was left, to tell
The horrid shreekes that filld the spatious Hall,
Those ruines were impartiall, and slew all:
They fell; and, with an unexpected blow.
Gave every one his death, and buriall too:
Thus di'd our Samson; whose brave death has won
More honour, then his honourd life had done:
Thus di'd our Conquerour; whose latest breath
Was crown'd with Conquest, triumph'd over death:
Thus di'd our Sampson; whose last drop of blood
Redeem'd heavn's glory, and his Kingdome's good:

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Thus di'd heavens Champion, and the earths bright Glory;
The heavenly subject of this sacred Story:
And thus th'impartiall hand of death that gathers
All to the Grave, repos'd him with his fathers;
Whose name shall flourish, and be still in prime,
In spight of ruine, or the teeth of Time;
Whose fame shal last, till heaven shal please to free
This Earth from Sinne, and Time shall cease to be.

Medita. 23.

Wages of sinne, is death. The day must come,
Wherin, the equall hand of death must sum
The severall Items of mans fading glory,
Into the easie totall of one Story:
The browes that sweat for Kingdomes and renown,
To glorifie their Temples with a Crowne;
At length, grow cold, and leave their honourd name
To flourish in th'uncertaine blast of Fame:
This is the heighth that glorious Mortalls can
Attaine; This is the highest pitch of Man:
The quilted Quarters of the Earths great Ball,
Whose unconfined limits were too small
For his extreame Ambition to deserve,
Six foote of length, and three of bredth must serve:
This is the highest pitch that Man can flie;
And after all his Triumph, he must die:

Lives he in Wealth? Does well deserved store
Limit his wish, that he can wish no more?
And does the fairest bounty of encrease
Crown him with plenty; and, his dayes with peace?
It is a right hand blessing; But supply
Of wealth cannot secure him; He must die:

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Lives he in Pleasure? Does perpetuall mirth
Lend him a little Heaven upon his earth?
Meets he no sullen care, no sudden losse
To coole his joyes? Breathes hee without a crosse?
Wants he no pleasure, that his wanton eye
Can crave, or hope from fortune? He must dye:
Lives he in Honour? Hath his faire desart
Obtain'd the freedome of his Princes heart?
Or may his more familiar hands disburse
His liberall favors, from the royall purse?
Alas, his Honour cannot soare too high,
For palefac'd death to follow: He must dye:

Lives he a Conqu'rour? And doth heaven blesse
His heart with spirit, that spirit, with successe;
Successe, with Glory; Glory, with a name,
To live with the Eternitie of Fame?
The progresse of his lasting fame may vye
With time; But yet the Conquerour must dye:
Great, and good God: Thou Lord of life and deth;
In whom, the Creature hath his being, breath;
Teach me to underprize this life, and I
Shall finde my losse the easier, when I dye;
So raise my feeble thoughts, and dull desire,
That when these vaine and weary dayes expire,
I may discard my flesh with joy, and quit
My better part, of this false earth; and it
Of some more sinne; and, for this transitory
And tedious life, enjoy a life of Glory.