Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bvt wretched Iob sigh't forth these words, & said,
Ah me! that my Impatience were weigh'd
With all my Sorrowes, by an equall hand,
They would be found more pondrous then the sand
That lies upon the new-forsaken shore:
My griefes want utterance, & haue stopt their dore:
And wōder not heav'ns shafts have struck me dead,
And God hath heapt all mischiefes on my head:
Will Asses bray, when they have grasse to eate?
Or lowes the Oxe, when as hee wants no meat?
Can palates finde a relish in distast?
Or can the whites of Egges well please the tast?
My vexed soule is dayly fed with such
Corruptions, as my hands disdaine to touch.
Alas! that Heav'n would heare my hearts request,
And strike me dead, that I may find some rest:

204

What hopes have I, to see my end of griefe,
And to what end should I prolong my life?
Why should not I wish Death? My strength (alas)
Is it like Marble, or my flesh like Brasse?
What power have I to mitigate my paine?
If e're I had, that power now is vaine;
My friends are like the Rivers, that are dry
In heat of Summer, when necessity
Requireth water; They amazed stand
To see my griefe, but lend no helping hand.
Friends; beg I succour from you? Craved I
Your Goods, to ransome my Captivity?
Shew me my faults, and wherein I did wrong
My Patience, and I will hold my tongue;
The force of reasonable words may moove,
But what can Rage or Lunacie reproove?
Rebuke you (then) my words to have it thought
My speech is franticke, with my griefe distraught?
You take a pleasure in your friends distresse,
That is more wretched than the fatherlesse:
Behold these sores: Be judg'd by your owne eyes,
If these be counterfeited miseries;
Ballance my words, and you shall finde me free
From these foule crimes wherewith ye branded me
And that my speech was not distain'd with sin,
Onely the language sorrow treated in.

Is not mans day prefixt, which, when expir'd,
Sleepes he not quiet as a servant hir'd?
A servants labour doth, at length, surcease,
His Day of travell findes a Night of peace;
But (wretched) I with woes am still oprest,
My mid-day torments see no Even of Rest;
My nights (ordain'd for sleep) are fill'd with griefe,
I looke (in vaine) for the next dayes reliefe:

205

With dust and wormes my flesh is hid, my sorrowes
Have plow'd my skin, and filth lyes in her furrows:
My dayes of ioy are in a moment gone,
And (hopelesse of returning) spent and done:
Remember (Lord) my life is but a puffe,
I but a man, that's misery enough;
And when pale death hath once seald up my sight,
I ne're shall see the pleasures of the light,
The eye of Man shall not discover me,
No, nor thine (Lord) for I shall cease to be;
When mortalls dye, they passe (like clouds before
The Sun) and backe returne they never more;
T'his earthly house he ne're shall come agin,
And then shall be, as if he ne're had bin:
Therfore my tongue shal speak while it hath breath
Prompted with griefe, and with the pangs of death:
Am I not weake and faint? what needst thou stretch
Thy direfull hand upon so poore a wretch?
When as I thinke that night shall stop the streames
Of my distress, thou frightst me then with dreams;
So that my soule doth rather choose to dye,
Than be involved in such misery;
My life's a burthen, and will end: O grieve
No longer him, that would no longer live.
Ah! what is Man, that thou should'st raise him so
High at the first, then sinke him downe so low?
What's man? thy glory's great enough without him:
Why dost thou (thus) disturb thy mind about him?
Lord, I have sinn'd (Great Helper of Mankind)
I am but Dust and Ashes, I have sinn'd:
Against thee (as a marke) why hast thou fixt me?
How have I trespast, that thou thus afflict'st mo?
Why, rather, didst thou not remoue my sin,
And salve the sorrowes that I raved in?

206

For thou hast heapt such vengeance on my head;
That when thou seekst me thou wilt find me dead.