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.