Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Iob wisheth his past happinesse,
Shewes his state present, doth confesse
That God's the Author of his griefe,
Relates the purenesse of his life.

Oh! that I were as happy as I was,
When Heavens bright favours shone upon my face,
And prsperd my affaires, inricht my joyes,
When all my sonnes could answer to my voyce;
Then did my store, and thriving flocks encrease,
Offended Iustice sought my hands, for peace;
Old men did honour, and the young did feare mee,
Princes kept silence (when I spake) to heare me;
I heard the poore, reliev'd the widowes cry,
Orphans I succour'd, was the blind mans eye,
The Cripples foote, my helplesse brothers drudge,
The poore mans Father, and th'oppressors Iudge;
I then supposed, that my dayes long Lease
Would passe in plenty, and expire in peace;
My Rootes were fixed, and my Branches sprung,
My Glory blaz'd, my Power grew daily strong;
I speaking, men stood mute, my speeches mov'd
All hearts to joy, by all men were approv'd:
My kindly words were welcome, as a latter
Raine, and were Oracles in a doubtfull matter.

O sudden change! I'm turn'd a laughing-stock
To boyes, and those that su'd to tend my flock,

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And such, whose hūgry wāts have taught their hāds
To scrape the earth, and digge the barren lands
For hidden rootes, wherewith they might appease
Their Tyran 'stomacks, these, (even very these)
Flout at my sorrowes, and disdaining me,
Point with theire fingers, and cry, This is he:
My honour's foyl'd, my troubled spirit lies
Wide open to the worst of injuries;
Where ere I turne, my sorrow, new, appeares,
I'me vext abroad with flouts, at home with feares;
My soule is faint, and nights that should give ease
To tyred spirits, make my griefes encrease,
I loath my Carkeise, for my ripened sores
Have chang'd my garments colour with their cores.
But what is worst of worsts, (Lord) often I
Have cry'd to thee, a stranger to my cry,
Though perfect Clemency thy nature bee,
Though kinde to all, thou art unkinde to me.
I nere waxt pale, to see another thrive,
Nor e're did let my' afflicted brother strive
With teares, alone: but I (poore I) tormented,
Expect for succour, and am unlamented:
I mourne in silence, languish all alone,
As in a Desart, am reliev'd by none:
My sores have dy'd my skin with filth, still turning
My joyes to griefe, and all my mirth to mourning.

My Heart hath past Indentures with mine Eye,
Not to behold a Maid, for what should I
Expect from heaven but a deserv'd reward,
Earn'd by so foule a sinne? for death's prepar'd,
And flames of wrath are blowne for such: Doth He
Not know my actions, that so well knowes mee?
If I have lent my hand to slye deceit,
Or if my steps have not beene purely strait,

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What I have sowne, then let a stranger eate,
And root my Plants untimely from their seate.
If I with Lust have e're distain'd my life,
Or beene defiled with anothers Wife,
In equall Iustice let my Wife be knowne
Of all, and let me reape as I have sowne:
For Lust, that burneth in a sinfull brest,
Till it hath burnt him too, shall never rest.
If e're my haste did treat my Servant ill,
Without desert, making my power my Will,
Then how should I before Gods Iudgement stand,
Since we were both created by one Hand?
If e're my power wrong'd the Poore mans cause,
Or to the Widow, lengthned out the Lawes:
If e're (alone) my lips did taste my bread,
Or shut my churlish doores, the poore unfed,
Or bent my hand to doe the Orphane wrong,
Or saw him naked, unapparell'd long;
In heapes of Gold, if e're I tooke delight,
Or gave Heavens worship to the heavenly Light,
Or e're was flattred by my secret Will;
Or joyed in my Adversaries Ill;
Let God accurse mee from his glorious Seat,
And make my plagues (if possible) more great,

Oh! That some equall hearer now were by,
To judge my righteous cause: Full sure am I,
I shall be quitted by th'Almighties hand.
What, therefore, if censorious tongues withstand
The judgement of my sober Conscience?
Compose they Ballads on me, yet from thence
My simple Innocence shall gaine renowne,
And on my head, I'le weare them, as my Crowne:
To the Almighties care will I reveale
My secret wayes; to him, alone, appeale:

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If (to conclude) the Earth could finde a tongue,
T'impeach my guiltlesse hands of doing wrong:
If hidden Wages (earn'd with sweat) doe lye
Rak't in her furrowes, let her wombe deny
To blesse my Harvest, let her better Seeds
Be turn'd to Thistles, and the rest, to Weeds.

Medita. 15.

The man whose soule is undistain'd with Ill,
Pure from the check of a distempred Will,
Stands onely free from the distracts of Care,
And flies a pitch above the reach of Feare:
His bosome dares the threatning Bow-mans arme,
His wisedome sees, his Courage feares no harme;
His brest lyes open to the reeking Sword;
The darts of swarthy Maurus can affoord
Lesse dread, than danger to his well prepar'd
And setled minde, which (standing on her guard)
Bids Mischiefe doe the worst she can, or will,
For he that does no ill, deserves no ill.

Would any strive with Samson for renowne,
Whose brawny arme can strike most pillers downe?
Or try a fall with Angels, and prevaile?
Or with a Hymne unhinge the strongest Iayle?
Would any from a pris'ner prove a Prince?
Or with slow speech best Orators convince?
Preserve he then, unstained in his brest,
A milke white Conscience; let his soule be blest
With simple Innocence: This sevenfold shield
No dart shall pierce, no sword shall make it yeeld;

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The sinewy Bow, and deadly headed Launce,
Shall breake in shivers and the splinters glaunce
Aside, returning backe, from whence they came,
And wound their hearts with an eternall shame.
The just and constant minde, that perseveres
Vnblemisht with false pleasures, never feares
The bended threatnings of a Tyrants brow,
Death neither can disturbe, nor change his Vow;
Well guarded with himselfe, he walkes along,
When, most alone, he stands a thousand strong.

Lives he in weale, and full Prosperity?
His wisedome tells him, that he lives to dye.

Is he afflicted? Sharpe afflictions give
Him hopes of Chang, and that hee dyes, to live.

Is he revil'd and scorn'd? He sits, and smiles,
Knowing him happy, whom the world reviles.
If Rich, he gives the Poore, and if he live
In poore estate, he findes rich friends to give:
He lives an Angel in a mortall forme;
And having past the brunt of many a storme,
At last ariveth at the Haven of Rest,
Where that just Iudge, that rambles in his brest,
Ioyning with Angels, with an Angels voyce,
Chaunts forth sweet Requiems of Eternall joyes.