Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Not far from Casius, in whose bounteous womb,
Great Pompeys dust lies crowned with his tomb,
Westward, betwixt Arabia and Iudæa,
Is situate a Country, called Idumæa,
There dwelt a man (brought from his Lineage,
That for his belly, swopt his Heritage,)
His name was Iob, a man of upright Will,
Iust, fearing Heaven, eschewing what was Ill,
On whom his God had heapd in highest measure,
The bounteous Riches of his boundlesse Treasure,
As well of Fortune, as of Grace, and Spirit,
Goods for his Children, Children to inherit;
As did his Name, his wealth did dayly wexe,
His Seed did germinate in either Sexe
A hopefull Issue, whose descent might keepe
His righteous Race on foot; seven thousand sheepe
Did pay their Summer-tribute, and did adde
Their Winter blessings to his Fold: He had

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Three thousand Camels, able for their load,
Five hundred Asses, furnisht for the road,
As many yoake of Oxen, to maintaine
His houshold, for he had a mighty Traine;
Nor was there any in the East, the which
In Vertue was so rare, in Wealth so rich.

Vpon a time, his Children (to improve
The sweet affection of their mutuall love)
Made solemne Feasts; each feasted in his turne,
(For there's a time to mirth, as well as mourne)
And who, by course, was Master of the Feast,
Vnto his home invited all the rest.

Even as a Hen (whose tender brood forsake
The downy closet of her Wings, and take
Each its affected way) markes how they feed,
This, on that Crum; and that, on t'other Seed;
Moves, as they move; and stayes, when as they stay,
And seemes delighted in their infant-play:
Yet (fearing danger) with a busie eye,
Lookes here and there, if ought she can espy,
Which unawares might snatch a booty from her,
Eyes all that passe, and watches every commer.
Even so th'affection of this tender Syre,
(B'ing made more fervent, with the selfe-same fire
Of dearest love, which flamed in their brests,
Preserved (as by fuell) in those Feasts)
Was ravisht in the height of joyes, to see
His happy Childrens ten-fold unity:
As was his joy, such was his holy feare,
Lest he, that plants his Engines every where,
Baited with golden Sinnes, and re-insnares
The soule of Man, turning his Wheat to Tares,
Should season Error with the taste of Truth,
And tempt the frailty of their tender youth.

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No sooner therefore had the dappled skie
Opened the Twilight of her waking eye,
And in her breaking Light, had promis'd day,
But up he rose, his holy hands did lay
Vpon the sacred Altar (one by one)
An early Sacrifice for every Sonne:
For who can tell, (said he?) my Sonnes (perchance)
Have slipt some sinne; which neither Ignorance
Pleaded, nor want of heed, nor youth can cure.

Sin steales, unseene, when men sleep most secure:

Meditat. 1.

Want is the badge of poverty: Then he
That wanteth most, is the most poore, say we.
The wretch, that hunger drives from door to door,
Aiming at present Almes, desires no more.
The toiling Swaine, that hath with pleasing trouble
Cockt a small fortune, would that fortune double,
Which dearly bought with slav'ry, then (alas)
Hee would be deem'd a Man, that's well to passe:
Which got, his mind's now tickled with an itch.
But to deserve that glorious stile of Rich.
That done, h'enjoyes the crowne of all his labour,
Could he but once out-nose his right-hand-neighbour
Lives he at quiet now? Now, he begins
To wish that Vs'ry were the least of sinnes:
But great, or small, he tries, and sweet's the trouble
And for its sake, he wishes all things double,
Thus wishing still, his wishes never cease,
But as his Wealth, his Wishes still encrease.

Wishes proceed from want: The richest then,
Most wishing, want most, and are poorest men:

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If he be poore, that wanteth much, how poore
Is he, that hath too much, and yet wants more?
Thrice happy he, to whom the bounty of heaven,
Sufficient, with a sparing hand, hath given:
'Tis Grace, not Gold, makes great; sever but which,
The Rich man is but poore, the Poore man rich.
The fairest Crop, of either Grasse, or Graine,
Is not for use, undew'd with timely raine.
The wealth of Crœsus, were it to be given,
Were not thank-worthy, if unblest by Heaven.

Even as faire Phæbe, in Diameter,
(Earth interpos'd betwixt the Sunne and her)
Suffers Eclips, and is disrobed quite
(During the time) of all her borrowed Light;
So Riches, which fond Mortals so embrace,
If not enlightned with the Beames of Grace,
B'ing interposed with too grosse a Care,
They lye obscured; and no riches are.

My stint of Wealth lyes not in my expressing,
With Iacobs Store (Lord) give me Iacobs Blessing;
Or if, at night, thou grant me Lazars Boone,
Let Dives Dogs licks all my sores at noone.
Lord, pare my wealth, by my Capacity,
Lest I, with it, or it suit not with mee.
This humbly doe I sue for, at thy hand,
Enough, and not too much, for my command.
Lord, what thou lend'st, shall serve but in the place
Of reckoning Counters, to summe up thy Grace.