V. JOB X. IX.
Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay, and wilt thou bring me to dust againe?
Thus from the bosome of the new-made earth
Poore man was delv'd, and had his unborne birth:
The same the stuff; the selfe-same hand does trim
The Plant that fades; the Beast that dies; and Him:
One was their Syre; one was their common mother:
Plants are his sisters; and the Beast; his brother,
The elder too, Beasts draw the selfe-same breath,
Waxe old alike, and die the selfe same-death:
Plants grow as he, with fairer robes arraid;
Alike they flourish, and alike they fade:
The beast, in sense, exceeds him; and, in growth,
The three-ag'd Oake doth thrice exceed them both:
Why look'st thou then so big, thou little span
Of earth? What art thou more, in being man?
I; but my great Creator did inspire
My chosen earth with that diviner fire
Of Reason; gave me Judgement, and a Will;
That, to know good; this, to chuse good from ill:
He puts the raines of pow'r in my free hand,
And juridiction over sea and land:
He gave me art, to lengthen out my span
Of life, and made me all, in being man:
I; but thy Passion has committed treason
Against the sacred person of thy Reason:
Thy Judgement is corrupt; peverse thy Will;
That knowes no good; and this makes choice of ill:
The greater height sends downe the deeper fall,
And good, declin'd, turnes bad; turnes worst of all.
Say then, proud inch of living earth, what can
Thy greatnesse claime the more in being man?
O, but my soule transcends the pitch of nature,
Borne up by th'image of her high Creator;
Out-braves the life of reason, and beats downe
Her waxen wings, kicks off her brazen Crowne;
My earth's a living Temple t'entertaine
The King of Glory, and his glorious traine:
How can I mend my Title then? where can
Ambition find a higher stile than man?
Ah, but that Image is defac'd and soil'd;
Her Temple raz'd, her altars all defil'd;
Her vessels are polluted, and distain'd
With loathed lust; her ornaments prophan'd;
Her oyle-forsaken lamps, and hallow'd Tapours
Put out; her incense breaths unsav'ry vapours:
Why swel'st thou then so big, thou little span
Of earth? What art thou more in being man?
Eternall Potter, whose blest hands did lay
My course foundation from a sod of clay,
Thou know'st my slender vessell's apt to leake:
Thou know'st my brittle Temper's prone to breake;
Are my Bones Brazzill, or my Flesh of Oake?
O, mend what thou hast made, what have I broke:
Looke, looke with gentle eyes, and in thy day
Of vengeance, Lord, remember I am clay.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. 32.
Shall I ask, who made me? It was thou that madest me, without who nothing
was made: Thou art my Maker, and I thy worke: I thank thee my Lord God, by
whom I live, and by whom all things subsist, because thou madest me: I thank
thee O my Potter, because thy hands have made me, because thy hands have formed me.
EPIGRAM 5.
[Why swell'st thou, Man, puft up with Fame, and Purse?]
Why swell'st thou, Man, puft up with Fame, and Purse?
Th'art better earth, but borne to dig the worse:
Thou cam'st from earth, to earth thou must returne;
And art but earth, cast from the wombe, to th'urne.
