Du Bartas His Divine Weekes And Workes with A Compleate Collectio[n] of all the other most delight-full Workes: Translated and written by yt famous Philomusus: Iosvah Sylvester |
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 | Du Bartas |  |
916
He pausing heer, Iob Thus replies him, sad:
Yet more of This? This haue we often had.
You are indeed a sort of Visiters;
A Crew of cold and wretched Comforters,
Shall idle, addle, aiery, Words surcease?
Or what doth make thee dare to dwel on these?
Yet more of This? This haue we often had.
You are indeed a sort of Visiters;
A Crew of cold and wretched Comforters,
Shall idle, addle, aiery, Words surcease?
Or what doth make thee dare to dwel on these?
Could I, as you, if you were in my Case,
And I in yours; your Soule in my Soules place:
Could I, against you, words haue multipli'd?
Insulted on you? at you, shook my head?
No: I should rather haue raught you Reliefe,
And with my speeches haue asswag'd your Griefe.
And I in yours; your Soule in my Soules place:
Could I, against you, words haue multipli'd?
Insulted on you? at you, shook my head?
No: I should rather haue raught you Reliefe,
And with my speeches haue asswag'd your Griefe.
But, though I plain, my Griefe's not mitigated;
Either, forbeare I, What is it abated?
For, He hath wearied me: Yea, Lord, Thou hast
Spoild me of All: and laid me wholly waste:
The wrinkled Furrowes, on my Brow and Back
(Bare skin and bone) bear witnesse of my Wrack.
Either, forbeare I, What is it abated?
For, He hath wearied me: Yea, Lord, Thou hast
Spoild me of All: and laid me wholly waste:
The wrinkled Furrowes, on my Brow and Back
(Bare skin and bone) bear witnesse of my Wrack.
My Foe's fell wrath hath raakt and rent me sore:
He striues against me; and still angry more,
More eager still, gnasheth his Teeth vpon me;
And with his eyes keen flashing frowneth on-me.
He striues against me; and still angry more,
More eager still, gnasheth his Teeth vpon me;
And with his eyes keen flashing frowneth on-me.
My Friends (alas!) they laugh at me the while,
They buffet me, and bitterly reuile;
They gape vpon me, and together gather,
Not to relieue me, but to grieue me, rather.
Thus hath God hemm'd me with vngodly Bands,
And turnd me ouer into Wicked hands.
They buffet me, and bitterly reuile;
They gape vpon me, and together gather,
Not to relieue me, but to grieue me, rather.
Thus hath God hemm'd me with vngodly Bands,
And turnd me ouer into Wicked hands.
I was at ease; When, by the Neck he took-me,
Brake me a-sunder, and to shiuers shook me:
And (whether for Disport or for Desptie.
Made me his Butte, and set me as his White.
His cunning Archers do beset me round:
He cleaues my Reines; and ruth-less, on the ground
Poures-out my Gall: with doubled Blowes he crushes,
And Giant-like, vpon me fiercely rushes.
Brake me a-sunder, and to shiuers shook me:
And (whether for Disport or for Desptie.
Made me his Butte, and set me as his White.
His cunning Archers do beset me round:
He cleaues my Reines; and ruth-less, on the ground
Poures-out my Gall: with doubled Blowes he crushes,
And Giant-like, vpon me fiercely rushes.
I Haue in Sack-cloth sadly sow'd my Skin,
In Dust and Ashes haue I humbled bin,
I haue (alas!) besmeard my Face with Teares,
On mine Eie-lids Death's Shade hath swom, in Fears:
For no foule Sin; neither, for Fashions sake,
To seem a Saint: pure Prayers did I make,
Pure and Sincere: else, neuer may they come
In Heau'n, to haue either regard or roome.
Neither, O Earth! if euer Blood I shed,
O! let it not by Thee be couered.
In Dust and Ashes haue I humbled bin,
I haue (alas!) besmeard my Face with Teares,
On mine Eie-lids Death's Shade hath swom, in Fears:
For no foule Sin; neither, for Fashions sake,
To seem a Saint: pure Prayers did I make,
Pure and Sincere: else, neuer may they come
In Heau'n, to haue either regard or roome.
Neither, O Earth! if euer Blood I shed,
O! let it not by Thee be couered.
But lo, my Witnesse is in Heav'n aboue;
My Record there, my Conscience to approue.
My friends contemne me, and condemne me too:
But, drown'd in teares, to God appeal I doo.
O! that one might (as Man with Man, in Sute)
That, Neighbor-like, one might with God dispute.
For the few Daies of my set number gone,
I goe the Way from whence Returne is none.
My Record there, my Conscience to approue.
917
But, drown'd in teares, to God appeal I doo.
O! that one might (as Man with Man, in Sute)
That, Neighbor-like, one might with God dispute.
For the few Daies of my set number gone,
I goe the Way from whence Returne is none.
| Du Bartas | |