Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Said Bildad then, With whom dost thou contest,
But with thy Maker, that lives ever blest?
His pow'r is infinite, mans light is dimme;
And knowledge darknesse not deriv'd from him?
Say then, who can be just before him? No man
Can challenge Purity, that's borne of Woman.
The greater Torch of heaven in his sight,
Shall be asham'd, and lose his purer light;
Much lesse can man, that is but living Dust,
And but a sairer Worme, be pure and just.

Whereat Iob thus: Doth heav'ns high judgement stand
To be supported by thy weaker hand?
Wants he thy helpe? To whom dost thou extend
These these thy lavish lips, and to what end?
No, Hee's Almighty, and his Power doth give
Each thing his Being, and by him they live:
To him is nothing darke, his soveraigne hands
Whirle round the restless Orbs, his pow'r cōmands
The even pois'd Earth; The water-pots of heaven
He empties at his pleasure, and hath given
Appointed lists, to keepe the Waters under;
The trembling skies he strikes amaz'd, with thūder:

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These, these the Trophies of his Power be,
Where is there e're a such a God as He?

My friends, these eares have heard your censures on me,
And heavēs sharp hād doth waigh so hard upon me;
So languishing in griefe, that no defence
Seemes to remaine, to shield my Innocence:
Yet while my soule a gaspe of breath affords
I'le not distrust my Maker, nor your words
Deserve, which heaven forfend, that ever I
Prove true, but I'le plead guiltlesse till I dye,
While I have breath, my pangs shal ne're perswade me
To wander, and revolt from Him that made me.
E're such thoughts spring from this confused brest,
Let death and tortures doe their worst, their best.
What gaines the Hypocrite, although the whole
Worlds wealth he purchase, with the prize on's soule?
Will heaven heare the voice of his disease?
Can he repent, and turne, when e're he please?
True, God doth sometime plague with open shame
The wicked, often blurres he forth his Name
From out the earth, his children shall be slaine,
And who survive shall beg their bread in vaine;
What if his gold be heapt, the good man shall
Possesse it, as true Master of it all;
Like Moths, their houses shall they build, in doubt
And danger, every houre to be cast out;
Besieg'd with want, their lips make fruitlesse mone
Yet (wanting succour) be reliev'd by none;
The worme of Conscience shall torment his brest,
And he shall rore, when others be at rest,
Gods hand shall scourge him, that he cannot flie,
And men shall laugh, and hisse, to heare him cry.

The purest metal's hid within the mould,
Without is gravell, but within is Gold;

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Man digs, and in his toile he takes a pleasure,
He seekes, and findes within the turfe, the treasure;
He never rests unsped, but (underneath)
He mines, and progs, though in the fangs of death:
No secret, (how obscure soever) can
Earths bosome smother, that's unfuond by man;
But the Divine, and high Decrees of Heaven,
What minde can search into? No power's given
To mortall man, whereby he may attaine
The rare discovery of so high a straine:
Dive to the depth of darknesse, and the deepes
Renounce this Wisdome: The wide Ocean keepes
Her not inclos'd; 'Tis not the purest Gold
Can purchase it, or heapes of silver, told;
The Pearles, and peerlesse Treasures of the East,
Refined Gold, and Gemmes, are all, the least
Of nothings, if compar'd with it, as which,
Earths masse of treasure, (summ'd) is not so rich;
Where rests the wisedome then? If men enquire
Below, they finde her not; or if they (higher)
Soare with the Prince of Fowles, they stil despaire,
The more they seeke, the further off they are.

Ah friends! how more than men? how Eagle-eyd
Are you, to see, what to the world beside
Was darke? To you alone (in trust) was given
To search into the high Decrees of Heaven:
You read his Oracles, you understand
To riddle forth mans fortunes by his hand;
Your wisedomes have a priviledge to know
His secret Smiling from his angry Brow:
Let shame prevent your lips, recant, and give
To the Almighty his prerogative,
To him, the searching of mens hearts belong,
Mans judgement sinks no deeper than the tongue;

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He overlookes the World, and in one space
Of time, his Eye is fixt on every place:
He waighes the Waters, ballances the Ayre,
What e're hath Being, did his hands prepare;
He wills that Mortalls be not over-wise,
Nor judge his Secrets with censorious eyes.

Medit. 14.

Tis Vertue to flye Vice: there's none more stout
Than he that ventures to picke vertue out
Betwixt a brace of Vices: Dangers stand,
Threatning his ruine upon either hand;
His Card must guide him, lest his Pinnace run
Vpon Charybdis, while it Seylla shun:
In moderation all Vertue lyes;
Tis greater folly to be over-wise,
Than rudely ignorant: The golden meane,
Is but to know enough; safer to leane
To Ignorance, than Curiosity,
For lightning blasts the Mountaines that are high:
The first of men, from hence deserv'd his fall,
He sought for secrets, and found death, withall:
Secrets are unfit objects for our eyes,
They blinde us in beholding: He that tryes
To handle water, the more hard he straines
And gripes his hand, the lesse his hand retaines:
The mind that's troubled with that pleasing itch
Of knowing Secrets, having flowne a pitch
Beyond it selfe, the higher it ascends,
And strives to know, the lesse it apprehends:

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That secret Wiseman, is an open Foole,
Which takes a Counsell-chamber, for a Schoole.

The eye of Man desires no farther light,
Than to descry the object of his sight:
And rests contented with the Suns reflection,
But (lab'ring to behold his bright complexion)
If it presume t'out-face his glorious Light,
The beames bereave him, justly, of his sight:
Even so the mind should rest in what's reveal'd,
But over-curious, if in things conceald
She wades too farre, beyond her depth, unbounded,
Her knowledge will be lost, and she confounded,
Farre safer 'tis, of things unsure, to doubt,
Than undertake to riddle secrets out.
It was demanded once, What God did doe
Before the World he framed? Whereunto
Answer was made, He built a Hell for such,
As are too curious, and would know too much.

Who flyes with Icarus his feathers, shall
Have Icarus his fortunes and his fall.
A noble Prince, (whose bounteous hand was bent,
To recompence his servants faith, and vent
The earnest of his favors,) did not profer,
But wild him boldly to prevent his offer:
Thankfull, he thus replyed, Then grant vnto me,
This boone, With-hold thy Princely secrets from me.

That holy Man, in whose familiar eare
Heavn oft had thundred, might not come too near:
The Temple must have Curtaines; mortall hearts
Must rest content to see his Hinder-parts.

I care not (Lord) how farre thy Face be off,
If I but kisse thy Hand, I have enough.