Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

When ruddy Phœbus had with morning light
Subdu'd the East, & put the stars to flight,
Heav'ns hand prepar'd a fervent Easterne winde,
Whose drought together with the Sun combin'd,
The one as bellowes blowing t'others fire,
With strong united force, did both conspire
To make assault upon the fainting head
Of helplesse Ionah, that was well nye dead,
Who turning oft, and tossing to and fro,
(As they that are in torments use to doe)
And (restlesse) finding no successe of ease,
But rather that his tortures still encrease;
His secret passion to his soule betraid,
Craving no sweeter boone then death, and said,
O kill me (Lord) or loe, my heart will rive;
For better 'tis for me to dye than live.

So said, The Lord did interrupt his passion,
And said, How now, is this a seemely fashion?
Doth it become my servants heart to swell?
Can anger helpe thee? Ionah, dost thou well?

Js this a fit speech? or a well-plac'd word?
What, art thou angry (Ionah) for a Gourd?
What, if th'Arabians with their ruder traine,
Had kild thine Oxen, and thy Cattell slaine?
What if consuming fier (falne from heaven)
Had all thy servants of their lives bereaven,
And burnt thy sheepe? What, if by strong oppression
The Chaldees had usurp'd unjust possession
Vpon thy Camels? Or had Boreas blowne
His full-mouth'd blast, and cast thy houses downe,
And slaine thy sonnes amid their jollities?
Or hadst thou lest thy Vineyard full of trees?
Hadst thou beene ravisht of thine onely Sheepe,
That in thy tender bosome us'd to sleepe?
How would thine hasty spirit then bin stirr'd,
Jf thou art angry, Ionah, for a Gourd?
To which, thus Ionah vents his idle breath,
Lord, I doe well to vexe unto the death;
I blush not to acknowledge, and professe
Deserved rage, I'm angry, I confesse;
'Twould make a spirit that is thorow frozen,
To blaze like flaming Pitch, and fry like Rozen:
Why dost thou aske that thing that thou canst tell?
Thou know'st I'm angry', and it beseemes me well.

So said; the Lord to Ionah thus respake;
Doest thou bemoane, and such compassion take
Vpon a Gourd, whose seed thou didst not sow,
Nor mov'd thy busie hands to make it grow,
Whose beauty, small; and value was but slight,
Which sprang, as also perisht in a night?
Hadst thou (O dust and ashes) such a care,
Such in-bred pitty, a trifling plant to spare?
Hadst thou, (O hard and incompassionate,
To wish the razing of so brave a State)

Hadst thou (I say) compassion to bewaile
The extirpation of a Gourd so fraile?
And shall not I (that am the Lord of Lords)
Whose Fountain's never dry, but still affords
Sweet streames of mercy, with a fresh supply,
To those that thirst for grace: What shall not I,
(That am the God of mercy, and have sworne
To pardon sinners, when soc're they turne?
(I say) shall J disclaime my wonted pitty,
And bring to ruine such a goodly City,
Whose hearts (so truely penitent) implore me,
Who day and night powre forth their soules before me?
Shall I destroy the mighty Ninevie,
Whose people are like sands about the Sea?
'Mong which are sixe score thousand Babes (at least)
That hang upon their tender Mothers brest,
Whose pretty smiles could never yet descry
The deare affection of their mothers eye?
Shall I subvert, and bring to desolation
A City, (nay, more aptly term'd a Nation)
Whose walls boast lesse their beauty than their might?
Whose hearts are sorrowfull, and soules contrite?
Whose Infants are in number, so amounting?
And beasts, and cattell endlesse, without counting?
What, Ionah, shall a Gourd so move thy pity?
And shall not I spare such a goodly Citie?