Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Doth vaine repining (Eliphaz replies)
Or words, like wind, beseeme the man that's wise
Ah sure, thy faithlesse heart rejects the feare
Of heaven, dost not acquaint thy lips with pray'r:
Thy words accuse thy heart of Impudence,
Thy tongue (not I) brings in the Evidence:
Art thou the first of men? Doe Mysteries
Vnfold to thee? Art thou the onely wise?
Wherein hath Wisdome beene more good to you
Then us? What know you, that we never knew?
Reverence, not Censure, fits a young mans eyes,
We are your Ancients, and should be as wise;
Is't not enough, your Arrogance derides
Our counsels, but must scorne thy God besides?
Angels (if God inquier) strictly must
Not pleade Perfection: then can man be just?

It is a truth receiv'd, these aged eyes
Have seen't; and is confirmed by the wise,
That still the wicked man is vold of rest,
Is alwayes fearefull; falls when he feares least,
In trouble he despaires, and is dejected,
He begs his bread, his death comes unexpected,

220

In his adversity, his griefes shall gaule him,
And, like a raging Tyrant, shall inthrall him,
He shall advance against his God, in vaine,
For Heaven shall crush & beate him downe againe;
What if his Garners thrive, and goods increase?
They shall not prosper, nor he live in peace,
Eternall horrour shall begirt him round,
And vengeance shall both him and his confound,
Amidst his joyes, despaire shall stop his breath,
His sons shall perish, with untimely death;
The double soule shall die, and in the hollow
Of all false hearts, false hearts thēselves shall swallow.

Then answered Iob, All this, before I knew,
They want no griefe, that finde such friends as you?
Ah, cease your words, the fruits of ill spent houres!
If heaven should please to make my fortunes yours,
I would not scoffe you, nor with taunts torment ye,
My lips should comfort, and these eyes lament ye:
What shall I doe, speake not, my griefes oppresse
My soule, or speake (alas) they'r ne're the lesse;
Lord I am wasted, and my pangs have spent me,
My skin is wrinkled, for thy hand hath rent me,
Mine enemies have smit me in disdaine,
Laught at my torments, jested at my paine:
I swell'd in wealth, but (now) alas, am poore
And (feld with woe) lye groveling on the floore,
In dust and sackcloth I lament my sorrowes,
Thy Hand hath trencht my cheekes with water furrowes,
Nor can I comprehend the cause, that this
My smart should be so grievous as it is:
Oh earth! if then an Hypocrite I be,
Cover my cryes, as I doe cover thee,
And witnesse Heaven, that these my Vowes be true
(Ah friends!) I spend my teares to Heav'n, not you.

221

My time's but short, (alas!) would then that I
Might try my cause with God before I dye.

Since then I languish, and not farre from dead,
Let me a while with my Accusers plead
(Before the Iudge of heaven and earth) my right:
Have they not wrong'd, and vext me day & night?
Who first, layes downe his Gage, to meet me? Say,
I doubt not (Heaven being Iudge) to win the day:
You'll say perchance, wee'll recompell your word,
E're simple truth should unawares afford
Your discontent; No, no, forbeare, for I
Hate lesse your Censures, then your flattery;
I am become a By-word, and a Tabor,
To set the tongues, and eares of men, in labour,
Mine eyes are dimme, my body's but a shade,
Good men that see my case, will be afraid,
But not confounded; They will hold their way,
And in a bad, they'll hope a better day;
Recant your errours, for I cannot see
One man that's truly wise among you Three;
My dayes are gone, my thoughts are mis-possest,
The silent night, that heaven ordain'd for rest,
My day of travell is, but I shall have
E're long, long peace, within my welcome grave;
My neerest kinred are the wormes, the earth
My mother, for she gave me first my birth;
Where are my hopes then? where that future joy,
Which you fals-prophecy'd I should enjoy?
Both hopes, and I alike, shall travell thither,
Where, clos'd in dust, we shall remaine together.

222

Meditat. 11.

The Morall Poets, (nor unaptly) faine,
That by lame Vulcans help, the pregnant brain
Of soveraigne Iove, brought forth, and at that birth,
Was borne Minerva, Lady of the earth.

O strange Divinity! but sung by rote;
Sweete is the tune, but in a wider note.

The Morall sayes, All Wisedome that is given
To hood-wink't mortals, first proceeds from heavē
Truth's errour, Wisedom's but wise insolence,
And light's but darknesse, not deriv'd from thence;
Wisedom's a straine, transcends Morality,
No Vertu's absent, Wisedome being by.
Vertue, by constant practice, is acquir'd,
This (this by sweat unpurchas't) is inspir'd:
The master-piece of knowledge, is to know
But what is good, from what is good in show,
And there it rests: Wisedome proceeds, and chuses
The seeming evill, th'apparent good refuses;
Knowledge descries alone; Wisedome applies,
That makes some fooles; this, maketh none but wise:
The curious hand of knowledge doth but picke
Bare simples, wisdome pounds them, for the sicke;
In my afflictions knowledge apprehends,
Who is the Author, what the Cause, and Ends,
It findes that Patience is my sad reliefe,
And that the hand that caus'd, can cure my griefe:
To rest contented here, is but to bring
Cloudes without raine, and heat without a Spring:
What hope arises hence? The Devils doe
The very same: They know, and tremble too;

223

But sacred Wisdome doth apply that good,
Which simple knowledge barely understood:
Wisedome concludes, and in conclusion, proves,
That wheresoever God corrects, he loves:
Wisedome digests, what knowledge did but tast,
That deales in futures; this, in things are past:
Wisdome's the Card of knowledge, which, without
That Guide, at random's wreck't on every doubt:
Knowledge, when wisdome is too weak to guide her
Is like a head-strong horse, that throwes the rider;
Which made that great Philosopher avow,
He knew so much, that he did nothing know.

Lord, give me Wisedome to direct my wayes,
I beg nor riches, nor yet length of dayes:
O grant thy servant Wisedome, and with it,
I shall receive such knowledge as will fit
To serve my turne: I wish not Phœbus waine,
Without his skill to drive it, lest I gaine
Too deare an Honour: Lord, I will not stay,
To picke more Manna, then will serve to day.