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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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While none reply'd, Iob grauely Thus goes on:

Cap. 27.


As liues the Lord, th'Almighty Holy-One,
Who seems a space my Verdict to suppress,
Loading my Soule with brunts of Bitterness;
While Breath is in me; till my Spirit, inspir'd
By God, be gon, and from me quite expir'd;

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My Lips shall speak no wickedness, no wile;
Nor shall my Tongue deliver any guile.
No; God forbid that I should iustifie
Your rash miss-Iudgement. Mine Integritie
I'll not abandon, to my Dying-day:
Mine Innocence I never will betray:
My Righteousness still will I fast retain;
And, my cleer Conscience, while I liue, maintain.
But, as the Wicked, be mine Enemies:
Those, as Vnrighteous, that against me rise.
For, what's the Hope of th'hollow Hypocrite
(Though He haue heaped Treasures infinite)
When God shall take (in a disastrous Day)
His Land (his Life) his Goods (his Gods) away?
Will God regard, or heare his howling Cry,
When He is compast with Calamitie?
Or, in th'Almightie can He comfort take?
Will he to God continuall Prayer make?
I'll show you, how th'Almightie hand doth deale:
God's wonted Course I will not now conceale:
Nay; you your Selues you all haue seen it too.
Why talk ye then thus vainely as yee doo?
This is, with God, the Portion and the Part
Of the Vngodly and the Cruell heart:
This heritage shall impious Tyrants haue
From the Almightie, This they shall receaue:
If many Children he shall leaue behinde,
As many shall the Sword or Famine finde:
Or, if that any in Remain be left;
They, by the Plague, shall, vnbewail'd, be rest.
If He haue heaped Silver, as the Dust;
And Cloathes, as Clay; he may: but sure the Iust
Shall ioy his Silver, and his Treasures share;
And weare his Warde-robe, how-so rich and rare.
If braue he build; it is but like the Moth
(On others ground, as that in others Cloth)
Soon dispossest: or, like a Watch-house, soon
To be set vp, and suddenly pull'd-down.
Such Rich, shall die; and lie without regard,
Vngather'd to his Fathers Toomb prepar'd:
Nothing of Him remains in Memorie:
He vanisheth in Twinkling of an eye.
Horrors shall seize him, as a Flood, with Fright;
And as a Tempest hurry him in the night.
An Eastern Storm him quite away shall chase;
And, as a Whirle-winde, hurle him from his place.
So pittiless, in wrathfull Ielousie,
(While glad and fain he would his fingers flie)

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Will God pursue him; and Good men shall smile,
And clap their hands, and hiss at him, the while.