Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Like as a Truant-Scholler (whose delay
Is worse than whipping, having leave to play)
Lakes haste to bee inlarged from the Iayle
Of his neglected Schoole, turnes speedy tayle
Upon his tedious booke (so ill befriended)
Before his Masters Ite be full ended:

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So thanklesse Satan, full of winged haste,
Thinking all time, not spent in Mischiefe, waste,
Departs with speed, lesse patient to forbeare
The patient Iob, then patient Job to beare.

Forth from the furnace of his Nostrell, flies
A sulpherous vapour, (which by the envious eyes,
Of this soule Fiend inflam'd) possest the faire
And sweet complexion of th'Abused Ayre,
With Pestilence, and (having power so farre)
Tooke the advantage of his worser Starre,
Smote him with Vlcers (such as once befell
Th'Egyptian Wizzards) Vlcers hot and fell,
Which like a searching Tetter uncorrected,
Left no part of his body unaffected,
From head to foote, no empty place was found
That could b'afflicted with another wound:
So noysome was the nature of his griefe,
That (left by friends, and wife, that should be chiefe.
Assister) he (poore he) alone remain'd,
Groveling in Ashes, being (himselfe) constrain'd,
With pot-sheards to scrape off those rip'ned cores,
(Which dogs disdain'd to licke) from out his sores,

Which when his wife beheld, adust, and keene,
Her passion waxt, made strong with scorn & spleen;
Like as the Winds, imprison'd in the earth,
And barr'd the passage to their naturall birth,
Grow fierce; and nilling to be longer pent,
Break in an Earthquake, shake the world, and vent;
So brake shee forth, so forth her fury brake,
Till now, pent in with shame, and thus she spake.

Fond Saint, thine Innocence findes timely speed,
A foolish Saint receives a Saintly meed;
Is this the just mans recompence? Or hath
Heaven no requitall for thy painfull Faith,

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Other then this? What, haue thy zealous Qualmes,
Abstemious Fastings, and thy hopefull Almes,
Thy private groanes, and often bended knees,
No other end, no other thankes, but these?
Fond man submit thee to a kinder fate,
Cease to be righteous at so deare a rate:
'Tis Heaven, not Fortune that thy weale debarres;
Curse Heaven then, and not thy wayward flarres:
'Tis God that plagues thee, God not knowing why;
Curse then that God, revenge thy wrongs and dye.

Iob then reply'd: God loves where he chastiz'd,
Thou speakest like a foole, and ill adviz'd;
Laugh we to licke the sweet, and shall we lowre,
If he be pleas'd to send a little sowre?
Am J so weake, one blast or two, should chill me;
I'le trust my Maker, though my Maker kill me.

When these sad tidings fill'd those itching eares
Of Earths black babling daughter (she that heares
And vents alike, both Truth and Forgeries,
And utters, often, cheaper then she buyes)
She spred the pinions of her nimble wings,
Advanc't her Trumpet, and away she springs,
And fils the whispering Ayre which soone possest
The spacious borders of th'enquiring East,
Vpon the summon of such solemne Newes,
Whose truth, malignant Fame could not abuse,
His wofull friends came to him, to the end,
To comfort, and bewaile their wretched friend.
But when they came farre off they did not know,
Whether it were the selfe same friend or no,
(Brim-fill'd with briny woe) they wept and tore
(T'express their grief) the garments that they wore
Seven dayes and nights they sate upon the ground,
But spake not, for his sorrowes did abound.