The grand Tryal or, Poetical Exercitations upon the book of Job. Wherein, Suitable to each Text of that sacred Book, a modest Explanation, and Continuation of the several Discourses contained in it, is attempted by William Clark |
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| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| II. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. | Cap. VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| III. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| IV. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| V. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
 | The grand Tryal |  |
Cap. VI.
As prisoner at bar for crimes arraign'd,
Hears his Inditement read, and is constrain'd
To hold his peace, in such an exigent,
Although he knows he's truly innocent,
Of what he is accus'd, but after all
He pleads not guilty, and begins to fall
To his defence: so with attentive ear,
Job all this while this reasoning did hear,
Not interrupting, till at length his friend
Of his so learn'd discourse had made an end:
Then, as his sorrows would permit, he speaks,
And argues thus.
Hears his Inditement read, and is constrain'd
To hold his peace, in such an exigent,
Although he knows he's truly innocent,
Of what he is accus'd, but after all
He pleads not guilty, and begins to fall
To his defence: so with attentive ear,
Job all this while this reasoning did hear,
Not interrupting, till at length his friend
Of his so learn'd discourse had made an end:
Then, as his sorrows would permit, he speaks,
And argues thus.
O, says he, that my ponderous griefs were weigh'd
And all my miseries were in ballance laid.
Poys'd by a steddy, and impartial hand,
Then, my good friend, you soon would understand
What is my case, what my disease, and pain,
And how much reason I have to complain.
And all my miseries were in ballance laid.
Poys'd by a steddy, and impartial hand,
Then, my good friend, you soon would understand
What is my case, what my disease, and pain,
And how much reason I have to complain.
It would be found most unsupportable,
The sands with it were not comparable.
No pain so great, no grief so heavy sure,
As this, which I poor mortal do endure.
I cann't express it, I want eloquence,
And cannot with that grace make my defence,
As you accuse me, grief will not allow
Me the same liberty of speech, as you
Do use in your discourse: your figured words,
And pretty Tropes, which like so many Swords,
Cut out a passage for your arguments,
And make a Lane for your unjust Complaints,
T'oppress my Spirit, do your wit express,
But what do all such Flowers of Art as these
To one, in my condition signify,
Who am already dead with misery?
The sands with it were not comparable.
No pain so great, no grief so heavy sure,
As this, which I poor mortal do endure.
I cann't express it, I want eloquence,
And cannot with that grace make my defence,
As you accuse me, grief will not allow
Me the same liberty of speech, as you
Do use in your discourse: your figured words,
39
Cut out a passage for your arguments,
And make a Lane for your unjust Complaints,
T'oppress my Spirit, do your wit express,
But what do all such Flowers of Art as these
To one, in my condition signify,
Who am already dead with misery?
Why do you then accuse so dull a thing,
That doth not understand your Reasoning?
A silly Creature, that makes no defence,
But only strives t'express its innocence,
By pious Sighs; you had as good forbear
Your Rhetorick, and with me drop a Tear,
In kind complyance with my killing grief,
To which your pointed words bring no relief,
You see my case, beyond expression, sad
Then why d'ye affliction to affliction add?
That doth not understand your Reasoning?
A silly Creature, that makes no defence,
But only strives t'express its innocence,
By pious Sighs; you had as good forbear
Your Rhetorick, and with me drop a Tear,
In kind complyance with my killing grief,
To which your pointed words bring no relief,
You see my case, beyond expression, sad
Then why d'ye affliction to affliction add?
See how th'Almighties Arrows in my Heart
Are fix'd, beyond all remedy of Art.
Th'envenom'd Shafts have suck'd my Moysture dry,
And caus'd the Wounds they made, to putrify,
Spreading a foul contagion every where,
Yea even my very Soul they do not spare.
Besides I feed a flame within my Breast,
By which my pain is every hour encreas't,
A flame that burns with heat, and violence,
Beyond belief:—a flame of Conscience,
A flame that makes us waste our days in fear,
For who a wounded Conscience can bear?
A wounded Conscienc!—ah a dreadful thing!
What Art can this express: whence shall I bring
Similitudes to point it out! O whence
Shall I bring homeward so much Eloquence,
As to express a wounded Conscience!
A Sting of Conscience!—O a horrid thing!
Not the most virulent and sharpest Sting
Doth hurt the Body, as this doth the Mind,
No, no this Sting is of another kind,
Then all your Stings on Earth, no poysoned Dart,
Composed by the subtilest Rules of Art,
Makes such a wound, as doth a Conscience
When God allowes it once a perfect Sense
Of its own Strength: then, then it wounds indeed,
And makes the Heart of hardest Mettal bleed.
What tempered Steel can make a wound so deep,
As doth a Conscience rouz'd out of its sleep,
By Divine Power, it Rages, Stares, and Foames,
Like one out of his Wits, that haunts the Tombs,
It Stings, it Bites, it Pierces, Cuts, and Stricks
Practising all the Feats of Lunaticks:
For when of sin we have a lively sense,
No Torment with a frighted Conscience
Can be compar'd.
Yet this, this Torment I endure, alace,
There's none can pity one in such a case,
But he that hath the like affliction known,
And so can guess my Torment by his own.
Are fix'd, beyond all remedy of Art.
Th'envenom'd Shafts have suck'd my Moysture dry,
And caus'd the Wounds they made, to putrify,
Spreading a foul contagion every where,
Yea even my very Soul they do not spare.
Besides I feed a flame within my Breast,
By which my pain is every hour encreas't,
A flame that burns with heat, and violence,
Beyond belief:—a flame of Conscience,
A flame that makes us waste our days in fear,
For who a wounded Conscience can bear?
A wounded Conscienc!—ah a dreadful thing!
What Art can this express: whence shall I bring
Similitudes to point it out! O whence
Shall I bring homeward so much Eloquence,
As to express a wounded Conscience!
A Sting of Conscience!—O a horrid thing!
Not the most virulent and sharpest Sting
Doth hurt the Body, as this doth the Mind,
No, no this Sting is of another kind,
Then all your Stings on Earth, no poysoned Dart,
Composed by the subtilest Rules of Art,
Makes such a wound, as doth a Conscience
When God allowes it once a perfect Sense
Of its own Strength: then, then it wounds indeed,
And makes the Heart of hardest Mettal bleed.
What tempered Steel can make a wound so deep,
As doth a Conscience rouz'd out of its sleep,
By Divine Power, it Rages, Stares, and Foames,
Like one out of his Wits, that haunts the Tombs,
It Stings, it Bites, it Pierces, Cuts, and Stricks
Practising all the Feats of Lunaticks:
For when of sin we have a lively sense,
No Torment with a frighted Conscience
Can be compar'd.
Yet this, this Torment I endure, alace,
25
But he that hath the like affliction known,
And so can guess my Torment by his own.
Why do you then condemn my just Complaint
As if it did exceed my Punishment?
Why so severe, to vex a poor forlorn
Unhappy wretch, as ever yet was born?
A thing, Of which my Countrey is ashamd,
And thinks not fit that I should ere be nam'd,
Hereafter, but as Malefactors are,
Who suffer for their Crimes, with shame, and fear.
Indeed you try me by too Bloody Laws,
When you affirm I cry without a cause.
Pray does the wild Ass bray, and make a noise,
When it has Grass for Pasture, at its choice?
Does the Ox Low, when Fodder lyes before it,
Or cease from Lowing, whilst it doth implore it.
As if it did exceed my Punishment?
Why so severe, to vex a poor forlorn
Unhappy wretch, as ever yet was born?
A thing, Of which my Countrey is ashamd,
And thinks not fit that I should ere be nam'd,
Hereafter, but as Malefactors are,
Who suffer for their Crimes, with shame, and fear.
Indeed you try me by too Bloody Laws,
When you affirm I cry without a cause.
Pray does the wild Ass bray, and make a noise,
When it has Grass for Pasture, at its choice?
Does the Ox Low, when Fodder lyes before it,
Or cease from Lowing, whilst it doth implore it.
D'ye think I'm proud of suffering? God knows
I take no pleasure to express my woes.
I had as lieve be silent, but that you
Force me to speak, because you won't allow
Me to sigh out my Breath, and hid my Face
Amongst those: sh[illeg.]s, whilst I hold my peace.
Can any man take pleasure in his pain?
Or by stupendious Poverty make gain?
No sure, no more then you'l with pleasure eat,
White of an Egg, or such unsavoury Meat,
Without some Salt; such my affliction is,
And needs no help of this periphrasis,
T'express its nature: such my Sorrows are,
With which no Earthly Torments can compare.
I take no pleasure to express my woes.
I had as lieve be silent, but that you
Force me to speak, because you won't allow
Me to sigh out my Breath, and hid my Face
Amongst those: sh[illeg.]s, whilst I hold my peace.
Can any man take pleasure in his pain?
Or by stupendious Poverty make gain?
No sure, no more then you'l with pleasure eat,
White of an Egg, or such unsavoury Meat,
Without some Salt; such my affliction is,
And needs no help of this periphrasis,
T'express its nature: such my Sorrows are,
With which no Earthly Torments can compare.
For what my Soul did formerly abhor,
Is now my Meat, what I disdain'd before
To touch is now to me familiar,
And (O sad change!) my only dayly Fare.
Is now my Meat, what I disdain'd before
To touch is now to me familiar,
And (O sad change!) my only dayly Fare.
O then that God would grant me my request,
And what I long for would vouchafe at least:
O that with my strong wishes he'd comply,
And kindly suffer me at length to dye!
And what I long for would vouchafe at least:
O that with my strong wishes he'd comply,
And kindly suffer me at length to dye!
To dye!—O that's the thing, which I desire.
Yea, in this very moment to expire,
Would God but stretch his arm of Providence,
And cut me off, that so I might go hence,
And be no more: would he but condescend
To what I ask, and there should be an end
Of all my earthly pain, and misery,
O then that God would suffer me to dye.
Yea, in this very moment to expire,
Would God but stretch his arm of Providence,
And cut me off, that so I might go hence,
And be no more: would he but condescend
To what I ask, and there should be an end
Of all my earthly pain, and misery,
O then that God would suffer me to dye.
Then should I yet have comfort, then some rest
My Soul might find, and I be free at least
From these huge pains:—O that he would allow me
The favour, without sparing, to undo me.
Though I'm in sorrow, yet let him not spare
To give the blow, lest I perhaps despare:
For hitherto I never have deny'd
Gods Holy Word, or i'th' least signify'd,
In all my Torments any diffidence
Of his just, kind, o're-ruling Providence.
My Soul might find, and I be free at least
From these huge pains:—O that he would allow me
The favour, without sparing, to undo me.
Though I'm in sorrow, yet let him not spare
To give the blow, lest I perhaps despare:
For hitherto I never have deny'd
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In all my Torments any diffidence
Of his just, kind, o're-ruling Providence.
Alace what strength have I thus to endure,
The force of Heaven, which never Mortal sure
Was able to support.—
Ah then, why should I live, or to what end
Should I prolong my Life thus to attend
A lingring Death, which I might have at hand,
But that my Conscience doth me countermand.
The force of Heaven, which never Mortal sure
Was able to support.—
Ah then, why should I live, or to what end
Should I prolong my Life thus to attend
A lingring Death, which I might have at hand,
But that my Conscience doth me countermand.
Alace what strength have I,—what strength have I
T'endure these Torments,—what congruity
Is now betwixt my Person, and my Pain.
Of which I must be suffered to complain:
Am I compos'd of Stone, or Brass, that I
Should suffer all these Tortures, and not dye?
T'endure these Torments,—what congruity
Is now betwixt my Person, and my Pain.
Of which I must be suffered to complain:
Am I compos'd of Stone, or Brass, that I
Should suffer all these Tortures, and not dye?
Have not I call'd for help, but could find none
And now my Substance, and my Strength is gone;
My Nerves are stiff, my Blood to Phlegm is shrunk,
My Eyes in Wells of brinish Tears are sunk;
My tottering Body Wyre-strung, Bone by Bone
Makes but the figure of a Skeleton.
And now my Substance, and my Strength is gone;
My Nerves are stiff, my Blood to Phlegm is shrunk,
My Eyes in Wells of brinish Tears are sunk;
My tottering Body Wyre-strung, Bone by Bone
Makes but the figure of a Skeleton.
Ah is there no man that will pity have
Upon a Carrion dropping in its Grave;
He that's in sorrow still is understood,
To find some Comfort from his Neighbour-hood,
But I find none,—
But 'tis no wonder men their friends forsake,
When now a days, their Faith to God they break.
Upon a Carrion dropping in its Grave;
He that's in sorrow still is understood,
To find some Comfort from his Neighbour-hood,
But I find none,—
But 'tis no wonder men their friends forsake,
When now a days, their Faith to God they break.
Take it from me, who by experience know
False friends too well, to whose base tricks I owe
No small proportion of my present grief,
From such, in time of want, there's no relief—
To be expected, more than from a Brook,
Where if for Waters you in Summer look,
'Tis dry, in Winter frozen, but when Rain
Falls in abundance, and we're in no pain
For Water, then it overflows its Banks,
Offering its Service, without Hire, or Thanks.
So when we're Rich, such friends will flock about us,
They cannot Live, Eat, Drink, or Sleep without us,
They cringe, they bow, they saun, and us present
With foolish smiles, and aery complement:
Protesting friendship at so high a rate,
As none would think they did equivocat.
But draw the Courtain, and let Poverty
Appear, with its Companion Misery,
Within our Walls, then all those Wasps are gone,
And as their friends they will us no more own.
Than who'd not rather sleep in faithful Dust,
Than Live, and in such friends o'th' fashion trust?
False friends too well, to whose base tricks I owe
No small proportion of my present grief,
From such, in time of want, there's no relief—
To be expected, more than from a Brook,
Where if for Waters you in Summer look,
'Tis dry, in Winter frozen, but when Rain
Falls in abundance, and we're in no pain
For Water, then it overflows its Banks,
Offering its Service, without Hire, or Thanks.
So when we're Rich, such friends will flock about us,
They cannot Live, Eat, Drink, or Sleep without us,
They cringe, they bow, they saun, and us present
With foolish smiles, and aery complement:
Protesting friendship at so high a rate,
As none would think they did equivocat.
But draw the Courtain, and let Poverty
Appear, with its Companion Misery,
Within our Walls, then all those Wasps are gone,
And as their friends they will us no more own.
Than who'd not rather sleep in faithful Dust,
Than Live, and in such friends o'th' fashion trust?
Friends did I call them,—no I do mistake,
Such are not friends, who do their friend forsake
In Misery, for at such time alone,
As by a Test, true friendship should be known.
But such have Hearts as hard, and black, as Ice,
They'r of no value, no esteem, no price.
Rugged, unpolish'd, cold, as is the snow,
Instinct of Nature sure they do not know.
Such are not friends, who do their friend forsake
In Misery, for at such time alone,
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But such have Hearts as hard, and black, as Ice,
They'r of no value, no esteem, no price.
Rugged, unpolish'd, cold, as is the snow,
Instinct of Nature sure they do not know.
Friends for a Sun-shine of Prosperity,
O worthy friends! but when the troubled Skye,
Portends a Storm, and Clouds begin to reel,
Then those Fair-weather-friends bid us farewel.
O worthy friends! but when the troubled Skye,
Portends a Storm, and Clouds begin to reel,
Then those Fair-weather-friends bid us farewel.
Friends for well furnish'd Tables, Friends for Food,
Friends of the Pantry, Friends for nothing good,
Save that such Friends as these might serve for foyles,
To set true frindship off: like Scabs, and Boyls,
They drop away, when th'humour is run dry
Which fed them, and until Prosperity
Return, like Crans, they to warm Countreys flye.
Friends of the Pantry, Friends for nothing good,
Save that such Friends as these might serve for foyles,
To set true frindship off: like Scabs, and Boyls,
They drop away, when th'humour is run dry
Which fed them, and until Prosperity
Return, like Crans, they to warm Countreys flye.
For as a Traveller in th'Arabian Sands,
Thinks to find Water, where a thousand hands
At constant work will find their Labour vain
In digging for it, where the Sun doth drain,
The innate Moisture, and by scorching Beams,
Choaks up the Veins of Rivers, Springs, and Streams.
Thinks to find Water, where a thousand hands
At constant work will find their Labour vain
In digging for it, where the Sun doth drain,
The innate Moisture, and by scorching Beams,
Choaks up the Veins of Rivers, Springs, and Streams.
But can find nothing save sterility,
So those, who on such barren Friends rely,
When they stand most in need of them shall find
Like those dry Sands, they fly before the Wind,
And make no help to such in their distress,
But rather by their Malice do encrease
Their friends affliction.
So those, who on such barren Friends rely,
When they stand most in need of them shall find
Like those dry Sands, they fly before the Wind,
And make no help to such in their distress,
But rather by their Malice do encrease
Their friends affliction.
Why, my good friends, such friends I think you are,
And I may safely you with such compare,
My case you see, my miseries you know,
And none of you are strangers to my woe
You see my dreadful Plagues, and are afraid,
Such Judgements may upon your selves be laid,
Yet, stead of Comfort, which I justly might
From you expected, in this doleful plight,
Your bitter words my Torments do augment.
Your tart Reproofs encrease my punishment.
And I may safely you with such compare,
My case you see, my miseries you know,
And none of you are strangers to my woe
You see my dreadful Plagues, and are afraid,
Such Judgements may upon your selves be laid,
Yet, stead of Comfort, which I justly might
From you expected, in this doleful plight,
Your bitter words my Torments do augment.
Your tart Reproofs encrease my punishment.
Ah what's your quarrel 'gainst a dying wretch?
Why do you thus insult? I do beseech
The favour of you, that you'll let me know
If I have injur'd any of you, or no?
Have I been grievous t'any of you, my Friends?
Have I demanded any of your Means?
Or have I proudly claim'd of your Supply?
Or vext you with my Bill of Charity?
Why then should I be so severely us'd
By any of you? have I e're refus'd
To serve your interest, and your reputation?
Before my late, and total Desolation?
Why do you thus insult? I do beseech
The favour of you, that you'll let me know
If I have injur'd any of you, or no?
Have I been grievous t'any of you, my Friends?
Have I demanded any of your Means?
Or have I proudly claim'd of your Supply?
Or vext you with my Bill of Charity?
Why then should I be so severely us'd
By any of you? have I e're refus'd
To serve your interest, and your reputation?
Before my late, and total Desolation?
Did ever I of you, my friends, demand
That you would free me from my En'mies hand?
Did, I when Captive, any of you pray,
That of your Bounty you'd my Ransome pay?
That you would free me from my En'mies hand?
Did, I when Captive, any of you pray,
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Pray teach me then, my friends, and let me know
Where lyes my Error in the case, and so
Being convinc'd, I shall from answering cease,
And, as a Mute, hereafter hold my peace.
Where lyes my Error in the case, and so
Being convinc'd, I shall from answering cease,
And, as a Mute, hereafter hold my peace.
But whilst you thus accuse me, I must still
Assert my Innocence, say what you will
To th'contrair: for my upright Conscience
Doth plead my Cause, and prompt me with Defence,
'Gainst all the Pleas you do against me move,
Then, wherein justly can you me reprove?
Assert my Innocence, say what you will
To th'contrair: for my upright Conscience
Doth plead my Cause, and prompt me with Defence,
'Gainst all the Pleas you do against me move,
Then, wherein justly can you me reprove?
Won't you permit a man in misery,
His troubled Mind so much to lenify,
As by some sad expressions to declare,
What the vexations of his Spirit are?
D'ye think but men, in my condemn'd estate,
May have at least some liberty to prate?
See you not how my pain my speech doth force,
And none should stop a dying mans Discourse.
His troubled Mind so much to lenify,
As by some sad expressions to declare,
What the vexations of his Spirit are?
D'ye think but men, in my condemn'd estate,
May have at least some liberty to prate?
See you not how my pain my speech doth force,
And none should stop a dying mans Discourse.
But you on those in sorrow vent your wrath,
And to your half-dead Friend you threaten Death,
Your unkind words, like Grins, and Snares you lay,
By which your Friend you shrewdly may betray.
And to your half-dead Friend you threaten Death,
Your unkind words, like Grins, and Snares you lay,
By which your Friend you shrewdly may betray.
Now therefore pray at length, impartially
Look on me, and consider whether I
Have reason thus t'expresse my grief, or no,
When I endure what none of you can know:
Assure your selves then I take no delight.
Thus to complain, I am no Hypocrite,
As you pretend, my sorrows are no less
Then I esteem them, nay could I expresse
My inward griefs, they'r more in number sure,
Then mortal man did ever yet endure.
Look on me, and consider whether I
Have reason thus t'expresse my grief, or no,
When I endure what none of you can know:
Assure your selves then I take no delight.
Thus to complain, I am no Hypocrite,
As you pretend, my sorrows are no less
Then I esteem them, nay could I expresse
My inward griefs, they'r more in number sure,
Then mortal man did ever yet endure.
Forbear then, pray,—at my desire, forbear,
From such Discourse, so rigid, so severe,
As wound my Heart more than my Sorrows do,
With all my Plagues, and Torments, pray allow
My grief some vent, or (as my present case is)
Should I be silent, I should burst to pieces.
Have patience but a while, and you shall see,
There's no so great iniquity in me,
As you alleage: when my survey is made,
And with my woes, my words in Scales are laid.
From such Discourse, so rigid, so severe,
As wound my Heart more than my Sorrows do,
With all my Plagues, and Torments, pray allow
My grief some vent, or (as my present case is)
Should I be silent, I should burst to pieces.
Have patience but a while, and you shall see,
There's no so great iniquity in me,
As you alleage: when my survey is made,
And with my woes, my words in Scales are laid.
| The grand Tryal | |