VI. JOB VII. XX.
Lord I have sinned: What shall I do unto thee, O thou preserver of men; why
hast thou set me as a marke against thee?
Lord I have done: and Lord, I have misdone;
'Tis folly to contest, to strive with one,
That is too strong; 'tis folly to assaile
Or prove an Arme, that will, that must prevaile?
I've done, I've done; these trembling hands have throwne
Their daring weapons downe: The day's thine owne;
Forbeare to strike, where thou hast won the field;
The palme, the palme is thine: I yeeld, I yeeld.
These treach'rous hands, that were so vainly bold
To try a thrivelesse combat, and to hold
Selfe-wounding weapons up, are now extended
For mercy from thy hand; that knee that bended
Upon her guardlesse guard, does now repent
Upon this naked floore; See, both are bent,
And sue for pitie; O, my ragged wound
Is deep and desp'rate; it is drench'd and drown'd
In blood, and briny teares: It does begin
To stink without, and putrifie within:
Let that victorious hand, that now appeares
Just in my blood, prove gracious to my teares:
Thou great Preserver of presumptuous man,
What shall I do? What satisfaction can
Poore dust and ashes make? O, if that blood
That yet remaines unshed, were halfe as good
As the blood of Oxen; if my death might be
An offring to attone my God and me,
I would disdaine injurious life, and stand
A suiter, to be wounded from thy hand:
But may thy wrongs be measur'd by the span
Of life? or balanc'd with the blood of man?
No, no, eternall sin expects, for guardon,
Eternall penance, or eternall pardon:
Lay downe thy weapons; turne thy wrath away;
And pardon him that hath no price to pay;
Enlarge that soule, which base presumption binds;
Thy justice cannot loose what mercy finds:
O thou that wilt not bruise the broken reed,
Rub not my sores, nor prick the wounds that bleed:
Lord, if the peevish Infant fights, and flies,
With unpar'd weapons, at his mothers eyes,
Her frownes (halfe mixt with smiles) may chance to show
An angry love-trick on his arme, or so;
Where, if the babe but make a lip and cry,
Her heart begins to melt; and, by and by,
She coakes his deawy cheeks; her babe she blisses
And choaks her language with a thousand kisses:
I am that child; loe, here I prostrate lie,
Pleading for mercy: I repent, and cry
For gracious pardon: let thy gentle eares
Heare that in words, what mothers judge in teares:
See not my frailties, Lord, but through my feare,
And looke on ev'ry trespasse through a teare:
Then calme thy anger, and appeare more mild:
Remember, th'art a Father; I, a child.
S. BERN. Ser. 21 in Cant.
Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproach of this shamefull
bondage? I am miserable man, but a free man: Free, because like to God,
miserable, because against God: O keeper of mankind, why hast thou set me as a
marke against thee? Thou hast set me, because thou hast not hindred me: It is
just that thy enemy should be my enemy, and that he who repugnes thee, should
repugne me: I who am against thee, am against my self.
EPIGRAM 6.
[But form'd, and fight? But borne, and then rebell?]
But form'd, and fight? But borne, and then rebell?
How small a blast will make a bubble swell?
But dare the floore affront the hand that laid it?
So apt is dust to fly in's face that made it.
