Samson. O that torment should not be confined
To the body's wounds and sores,
But must secret passage find To the inmost mind.
Dire inflammation, which no cooling herb Or medicinal liquor can asswage, Nor breath of vernal air from snowy Alp. Sleep hath forsook and given me o'er To death's benumming opium as my only cure, Thence faintings, swoonings of despair, And sense of heaven's desertion.