Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh! that I were as happy as I was,
When Heavens bright favours shone upon my face,
And prsperd my affaires, inricht my joyes,
When all my sonnes could answer to my voyce;
Then did my store, and thriving flocks encrease,
Offended Iustice sought my hands, for peace;
Old men did honour, and the young did feare mee,
Princes kept silence (when I spake) to heare me;
I heard the poore, reliev'd the widowes cry,
Orphans I succour'd, was the blind mans eye,
The Cripples foote, my helplesse brothers drudge,
The poore mans Father, and th'oppressors Iudge;
I then supposed, that my dayes long Lease
Would passe in plenty, and expire in peace;
My Rootes were fixed, and my Branches sprung,
My Glory blaz'd, my Power grew daily strong;
I speaking, men stood mute, my speeches mov'd
All hearts to joy, by all men were approv'd:
My kindly words were welcome, as a latter
Raine, and were Oracles in a doubtfull matter.

O sudden change! I'm turn'd a laughing-stock
To boyes, and those that su'd to tend my flock,

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And such, whose hūgry wāts have taught their hāds
To scrape the earth, and digge the barren lands
For hidden rootes, wherewith they might appease
Their Tyran 'stomacks, these, (even very these)
Flout at my sorrowes, and disdaining me,
Point with theire fingers, and cry, This is he:
My honour's foyl'd, my troubled spirit lies
Wide open to the worst of injuries;
Where ere I turne, my sorrow, new, appeares,
I'me vext abroad with flouts, at home with feares;
My soule is faint, and nights that should give ease
To tyred spirits, make my griefes encrease,
I loath my Carkeise, for my ripened sores
Have chang'd my garments colour with their cores.
But what is worst of worsts, (Lord) often I
Have cry'd to thee, a stranger to my cry,
Though perfect Clemency thy nature bee,
Though kinde to all, thou art unkinde to me.
I nere waxt pale, to see another thrive,
Nor e're did let my' afflicted brother strive
With teares, alone: but I (poore I) tormented,
Expect for succour, and am unlamented:
I mourne in silence, languish all alone,
As in a Desart, am reliev'd by none:
My sores have dy'd my skin with filth, still turning
My joyes to griefe, and all my mirth to mourning.

My Heart hath past Indentures with mine Eye,
Not to behold a Maid, for what should I
Expect from heaven but a deserv'd reward,
Earn'd by so foule a sinne? for death's prepar'd,
And flames of wrath are blowne for such: Doth He
Not know my actions, that so well knowes mee?
If I have lent my hand to slye deceit,
Or if my steps have not beene purely strait,

242

What I have sowne, then let a stranger eate,
And root my Plants untimely from their seate.
If I with Lust have e're distain'd my life,
Or beene defiled with anothers Wife,
In equall Iustice let my Wife be knowne
Of all, and let me reape as I have sowne:
For Lust, that burneth in a sinfull brest,
Till it hath burnt him too, shall never rest.
If e're my haste did treat my Servant ill,
Without desert, making my power my Will,
Then how should I before Gods Iudgement stand,
Since we were both created by one Hand?
If e're my power wrong'd the Poore mans cause,
Or to the Widow, lengthned out the Lawes:
If e're (alone) my lips did taste my bread,
Or shut my churlish doores, the poore unfed,
Or bent my hand to doe the Orphane wrong,
Or saw him naked, unapparell'd long;
In heapes of Gold, if e're I tooke delight,
Or gave Heavens worship to the heavenly Light,
Or e're was flattred by my secret Will;
Or joyed in my Adversaries Ill;
Let God accurse mee from his glorious Seat,
And make my plagues (if possible) more great,

Oh! That some equall hearer now were by,
To judge my righteous cause: Full sure am I,
I shall be quitted by th'Almighties hand.
What, therefore, if censorious tongues withstand
The judgement of my sober Conscience?
Compose they Ballads on me, yet from thence
My simple Innocence shall gaine renowne,
And on my head, I'le weare them, as my Crowne:
To the Almighties care will I reveale
My secret wayes; to him, alone, appeale:

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If (to conclude) the Earth could finde a tongue,
T'impeach my guiltlesse hands of doing wrong:
If hidden Wages (earn'd with sweat) doe lye
Rak't in her furrowes, let her wombe deny
To blesse my Harvest, let her better Seeds
Be turn'd to Thistles, and the rest, to Weeds.