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. |
| VII. | Cap. 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. VII.
1. Is there not an appointed time for man upon earth? and are not his days, as the days of an hireling?
A breathing Bauble—now pray let us see
What is this man,—of what should he be proud?
What more than t'other Creatures is allow'd
44
This painted Glow-worm, this Cameleon,
That casts it self in every Form, and Shape,
And fain would something of its Maker Ape.
Is there not to this glorious Creature set
A certain time? his days are limitate,
As are those of a Hireling, his abode
Upon this Earth has its own period;
Beyond which no man of the greatest strength,
Can pass—vain man must dye—vain man at length
Must drop into his Grave, and there become
The very Dross, the Caput mortuum
Of Lifes projection, fitted for no use,
Yet is this all his labour doth produce.
Although he fancies to himself he may,
Exceed the reputation of Clay
In high conceits, and even seems to hold
Within his Clutch whole Magazines of Gold,
Like one, who in a Dream great Booties takes,
But finds himself deceiv'd, when he awakes.
On what alace then should this silly Tool
Value it self!—this Hypocondriack fooll,
For what should he himself so much esteem,
When all his Life is but a very Dream.
Have you not seen a Labourer all the day,
Long for the happy night, wherein he may
Refresh his wearied Bones, and think the Sun
Spite of him, with too slow a pace doth run.
And with impatience doth his Task attend,
Longing to have his Labours at an end.
Long for the happy night, wherein he may
Refresh his wearied Bones, and think the Sun
Spite of him, with too slow a pace doth run.
And with impatience doth his Task attend,
Longing to have his Labours at an end.
This is my very case, for so have I
Toil'd all the day long of my vanity,
And long'd extreemly for th'approach of night,
In which I pleas'd my self to think I might
Enjoy some Rest; but here the difference lay
'Twixt the Labourer, and me, the night, and day
To me were both alike; no rest I found
In either, at no rate I could compound
With sleep for one hour of its company,
But on my Bed, I'd sick, and tossing lye,
With Eyes unclos'd, and Spirit much perplex't,
Fainting with grief, in Mind, and Body vex't.
So runs my Time, so do my Years advance,
I' have indeed had for Inheritance,
Long dayes of pain, and months of vanity,
Which makes my Life a Scene of misery.
Toil'd all the day long of my vanity,
And long'd extreemly for th'approach of night,
In which I pleas'd my self to think I might
Enjoy some Rest; but here the difference lay
'Twixt the Labourer, and me, the night, and day
To me were both alike; no rest I found
In either, at no rate I could compound
With sleep for one hour of its company,
But on my Bed, I'd sick, and tossing lye,
With Eyes unclos'd, and Spirit much perplex't,
Fainting with grief, in Mind, and Body vex't.
So runs my Time, so do my Years advance,
I' have indeed had for Inheritance,
Long dayes of pain, and months of vanity,
Which makes my Life a Scene of misery.
So soon as I my self compose to Rest,
Thinking to cach some slender Nap at least,
Before I shut up my o'rewearied Eyes,
Now I lye down, but when shall I arise
I say, how shall I pass the tedious night?
When shall I see again the morning light?
The night I do by Moments Calculate,
And with impatience for the Morning wait
With tossing too, and fro upon my Bed,
My Body is sore pain'd, and wearied.
Thinking to cach some slender Nap at least,
Before I shut up my o'rewearied Eyes,
Now I lye down, but when shall I arise
I say, how shall I pass the tedious night?
When shall I see again the morning light?
The night I do by Moments Calculate,
And with impatience for the Morning wait
45
My Body is sore pain'd, and wearied.
My Body tortur'd with a strange Disease,
Whose fury no soft Ointments can appease:
What art to such as I am can bring ease?
My Flesh with Vermine is all overspread,
See how with Dust, and Mud I'm covered.
My Skin to pieces is all rent, and torn,
Was ever man to such sad Judgements born?
My Pains, and Torments are all visible,
With Ulcers I am become horrible.
Whose fury no soft Ointments can appease:
What art to such as I am can bring ease?
My Flesh with Vermine is all overspread,
See how with Dust, and Mud I'm covered.
My Skin to pieces is all rent, and torn,
Was ever man to such sad Judgements born?
My Pains, and Torments are all visible,
With Ulcers I am become horrible.
My days do pass with more celerity,
Than Weavers Shuttle through the Web doth fly.
Amidst a thousand Sorrows, Cares, and Fears,
I spend some inconsiderable Years.
They flye, they flye, nothing in Earth, or Air,
In swiftness, can with humane years compare,
Out all sight they flye, they flye amaine,
Never intending to return again.
Time turns its Hour-glass, and ore'turns us all,
No Mortal Creature can its Time recal.
Than Weavers Shuttle through the Web doth fly.
Amidst a thousand Sorrows, Cares, and Fears,
I spend some inconsiderable Years.
They flye, they flye, nothing in Earth, or Air,
In swiftness, can with humane years compare,
Out all sight they flye, they flye amaine,
Never intending to return again.
Time turns its Hour-glass, and ore'turns us all,
No Mortal Creature can its Time recal.
Consider then, good Lord, what thing I am,
And how I must return from whence I came,
In a few days: my Life is but a blast,
And like a puff of Wind, is quicklie past.
Then shall my Eyes, with darkness black, as night,
Be sealed up, and to my earthly sight,
Nothing that's pleasant shall again appear,
For what to me most precious was and dear,
I have alreadie lost, and now remains,
What to preserve, is hardlie worth my pains.
For why, alace, should such a one as I
Desire to live in pain, and misery,
Of which I cann't be free, unless I dye.
And how I must return from whence I came,
In a few days: my Life is but a blast,
And like a puff of Wind, is quicklie past.
Then shall my Eyes, with darkness black, as night,
Be sealed up, and to my earthly sight,
Nothing that's pleasant shall again appear,
For what to me most precious was and dear,
I have alreadie lost, and now remains,
What to preserve, is hardlie worth my pains.
For why, alace, should such a one as I
Desire to live in pain, and misery,
Of which I cann't be free, unless I dye.
In a short time (for which I do implore)
Th'Eye that hath seen me, shall see me no more.
Thy Eyes, O Lord, are on me, and annon
Shal't strike me dead, and so I shall be gone.
I shall no longer in this state remain,
For Death shall put an end to all my pain.
Th'Eye that hath seen me, shall see me no more.
Thy Eyes, O Lord, are on me, and annon
Shal't strike me dead, and so I shall be gone.
I shall no longer in this state remain,
For Death shall put an end to all my pain.
As Clouds do quickly vanish into Air,
And in full Bodies do no more appear,
So he that once goes down to silent Grave,
To Life again shall no more access have.
And in full Bodies do no more appear,
So he that once goes down to silent Grave,
To Life again shall no more access have.
Shall not return unto his dwelling place,
For even his Servants, who ador'd his Face,
To whom, on Life, his presence was most dear,
If after Death, to them he shall appear;
His gastlie looks will make them quicklie run,
Nor can these very underlings be won,
With their old Friend, and Master to converse,
By all the Rhetorick of the Universe.
Though all such apparitions as these,
Are but meer phantasms, and delude our Eyes.
With empty Shadows of composed Air,
But the True Body never doth appear:
That rests in Grave, and shall not rise before,
The Fabrick of this Earth shall be no more.
For even his Servants, who ador'd his Face,
To whom, on Life, his presence was most dear,
If after Death, to them he shall appear;
His gastlie looks will make them quicklie run,
Nor can these very underlings be won,
With their old Friend, and Master to converse,
By all the Rhetorick of the Universe.
Though all such apparitions as these,
Are but meer phantasms, and delude our Eyes.
46
But the True Body never doth appear:
That rests in Grave, and shall not rise before,
The Fabrick of this Earth shall be no more.
Then since no other lenitive can be found,
T'allay my grief, ere I go under ground,
But only words, by which I may express,
Those inward ills, that do my Soul oppress,
I will not spare my mouth, but openly
Unto my ever-living God I'le cry.
I'le speak, as one in Spirit sore perplex't,
As one with Plagues, and Torments shrewdly vex't.
I'le speake, I'le speak, I will not hold my Tongue,
But roar out my oppressions all day long.
T'allay my grief, ere I go under ground,
But only words, by which I may express,
Those inward ills, that do my Soul oppress,
I will not spare my mouth, but openly
Unto my ever-living God I'le cry.
I'le speak, as one in Spirit sore perplex't,
As one with Plagues, and Torments shrewdly vex't.
I'le speake, I'le speak, I will not hold my Tongue,
But roar out my oppressions all day long.
Lord, I'le say, what am I! an Ocean!
A Whale, or any thing that's more than man!
That to destroy me thou shouldst take such pains,
Whilst to undo all that of me remains,
Were but a small Task for a Gnat, a Flee,
A Wasp, a Hornet, or a humble Bee:
Why shouldst then be at so much pains, good Lord,
To kill a thing, which of its own accord,
Will quickly dye, a thing, that by thy Wrath,
As yet deny'd the liberty of Death,
Doth only some small sparks of Life retain,
And like a Dying Creature, breaths with pain.
One entire Ulcer, a meer lump of Boyls,
A heap of Sores, one loaden with the Spoiles,
Of all Diseases; one so fully spent
In Body and in Mind so discontent,
No pleasure, which the World affords, can hire
My Soul to Live: pray let me now expire;
Or else I fear, that through impatience
Of my afflictions, I may give offence.
A Whale, or any thing that's more than man!
That to destroy me thou shouldst take such pains,
Whilst to undo all that of me remains,
Were but a small Task for a Gnat, a Flee,
A Wasp, a Hornet, or a humble Bee:
Why shouldst then be at so much pains, good Lord,
To kill a thing, which of its own accord,
Will quickly dye, a thing, that by thy Wrath,
As yet deny'd the liberty of Death,
Doth only some small sparks of Life retain,
And like a Dying Creature, breaths with pain.
One entire Ulcer, a meer lump of Boyls,
A heap of Sores, one loaden with the Spoiles,
Of all Diseases; one so fully spent
In Body and in Mind so discontent,
No pleasure, which the World affords, can hire
My Soul to Live: pray let me now expire;
Or else I fear, that through impatience
Of my afflictions, I may give offence.
For when I say my Couch shall me relieve,
And in my Bed I shall some comfort have,
When I imagine I may find some ease,
In sleep to dull the edge of my Disease.
When I suppose I may find Consolation,
I'th' pleasure of a few hours Meditation:
And whilst on Pillow I my Head do lay,
To sleep away the sorrows of the day,
And in my Bed I shall some comfort have,
When I imagine I may find some ease,
In sleep to dull the edge of my Disease.
When I suppose I may find Consolation,
I'th' pleasure of a few hours Meditation:
And whilst on Pillow I my Head do lay,
To sleep away the sorrows of the day,
Then dost thou put my Soul all in a fright,
With fearful Dreams, and Visions of the night.
In a cold sweat I lye, my Flesh, and Bones,
My Joints, and Sinews tremble all at once.
Strugling with pain, upon my Bed I rowl,
Whilst horrid Objects do night-mare my Soul,
And to my troubled fancie represent,
What neither Tongue can speak, or hard can paint.
Hells Terrors plainlie are to me reveal'd,
Whilst with amusing sleep my Eyes are seal'd;
On which reflecting when I do awake;
Fear damps my Soul, and makes my Body shake.
With fearful Dreams, and Visions of the night.
In a cold sweat I lye, my Flesh, and Bones,
My Joints, and Sinews tremble all at once.
Strugling with pain, upon my Bed I rowl,
Whilst horrid Objects do night-mare my Soul,
And to my troubled fancie represent,
What neither Tongue can speak, or hard can paint.
Hells Terrors plainlie are to me reveal'd,
Whilst with amusing sleep my Eyes are seal'd;
On which reflecting when I do awake;
Fear damps my Soul, and makes my Body shake.
47
Hence Drowning, Smothering, Strangling of the Breath,
Or any of the numerous kinds of Death
My Soul to Life prefers; my generous Soul
Abhorrs to live in such a lurking hole,
As is this body; such a vile Hog-sty,
A Brutish Soul would even disdain to ly
Within its Walls: a Cottage so unclean,
So Cob web-furnish'd, so obscure, and mean,
As none but one of Life that's wearyed
In such a villanous Cave would lay his bed.
What Soul so poor and mean exceeding but
The small Dimensions of a Hazel nut
Would stoop so low, as condescend to dwell
In such an ugly, smelling nasty Cell,
As is this body, which I do call mine,
So thin, the Sun doth clearly through it shine,
Is this a Lodging for a Thing Divine?
A tottering Fabrick, which the rotten Bones
Not able to support, down all at once
Will quickly fall: is this a dwelling place
For any thing come of a Heavenly Race?
No, no, fly hence my Soul, fly hence, make haste
Why dost not fly? for such a Noble Guest
There's here no room, no fit Accomodation,
This body can afford no Habitation,
For such as thee, Dear Soul.—
O let me dy then, let me dy, good Lord,
O let me dy, Death surely will afford
Such comfort, as I here expect in vain.
Why should I live then in such grievous pain?
And as a mark to all sad torments stand
When pitying Death doth offer help at hand.
Or any of the numerous kinds of Death
My Soul to Life prefers; my generous Soul
Abhorrs to live in such a lurking hole,
As is this body; such a vile Hog-sty,
A Brutish Soul would even disdain to ly
Within its Walls: a Cottage so unclean,
So Cob web-furnish'd, so obscure, and mean,
As none but one of Life that's wearyed
In such a villanous Cave would lay his bed.
What Soul so poor and mean exceeding but
The small Dimensions of a Hazel nut
Would stoop so low, as condescend to dwell
In such an ugly, smelling nasty Cell,
As is this body, which I do call mine,
So thin, the Sun doth clearly through it shine,
Is this a Lodging for a Thing Divine?
A tottering Fabrick, which the rotten Bones
Not able to support, down all at once
Will quickly fall: is this a dwelling place
For any thing come of a Heavenly Race?
No, no, fly hence my Soul, fly hence, make haste
Why dost not fly? for such a Noble Guest
There's here no room, no fit Accomodation,
This body can afford no Habitation,
For such as thee, Dear Soul.—
O let me dy then, let me dy, good Lord,
O let me dy, Death surely will afford
Such comfort, as I here expect in vain.
Why should I live then in such grievous pain?
And as a mark to all sad torments stand
When pitying Death doth offer help at hand.
In this condition, I do do life abhorr,
I hate it, and shall never love it more.
What should I for a few hours breathing give?
For 'tis impossible I can longer live.
O spare me then for some small time at least
That these o're wearyed bones may have some rest,
And in this life I may find ease, before
I take my Journey hence, and be no more:
E're I be wrapp'd up in Eternity,
For all my days are but meer vanity.
I hate it, and shall never love it more.
What should I for a few hours breathing give?
For 'tis impossible I can longer live.
O spare me then for some small time at least
That these o're wearyed bones may have some rest,
And in this life I may find ease, before
I take my Journey hence, and be no more:
E're I be wrapp'd up in Eternity,
For all my days are but meer vanity.
Then what is Man that thou shouldst look upon him?
This wretched thing, that thou shouldst so much own him.
Thou dost thy heart too much upon him set,
Which makes the silly Toad it self forget,
Valuing it self so much on thy esteem
As it hath purchas'd to its self a name,
Beyond the other Creatures of thy hand:
Whereas if it, it self did understand,
'Tis but as dust, that 'fore the Wind doth fly,
A passing thought, th'abstract of vanity.
Since thou canst then, Lord, by one word destroy
This Creature, why shouldst so much time employ
In Torturing of it thus, once, and again,
And not by one blow put me out of pain.
One blow of favour, Lord, I do implore,
Kill me, and then I shall complain no more.
This wretched thing, that thou shouldst so much own him.
Thou dost thy heart too much upon him set,
Which makes the silly Toad it self forget,
Valuing it self so much on thy esteem
As it hath purchas'd to its self a name,
Beyond the other Creatures of thy hand:
Whereas if it, it self did understand,
'Tis but as dust, that 'fore the Wind doth fly,
A passing thought, th'abstract of vanity.
Since thou canst then, Lord, by one word destroy
This Creature, why shouldst so much time employ
48
And not by one blow put me out of pain.
One blow of favour, Lord, I do implore,
Kill me, and then I shall complain no more.
But still I cannot fancy, why shouldst thou,
Before whom all in Heavens, and Earth do bow,
Have this same Creature Man in such esteem
This flying Shade, this passage of a Dream,
A thing so mean, not worth thy Observation,
Why should'st allow it so much Reputation?
That thou the great Creator every day
Shouldst of this pismire make so strict survey.
Before whom all in Heavens, and Earth do bow,
Have this same Creature Man in such esteem
This flying Shade, this passage of a Dream,
A thing so mean, not worth thy Observation,
Why should'st allow it so much Reputation?
That thou the great Creator every day
Shouldst of this pismire make so strict survey.
How long, Lord, shall I in these Torments lye!
Ah is there no end of my Misery!
Some respite, Lord, I beg, I do request,
Some breathing time, even so long time at least,
Free from these pains, as I may swallow down
My Spittle: Oh, good God, let me alone
But for a Moment, that I may but try
Thy goodness once, again, before I Dye.
Ah is there no end of my Misery!
Some respite, Lord, I beg, I do request,
Some breathing time, even so long time at least,
Free from these pains, as I may swallow down
My Spittle: Oh, good God, let me alone
But for a Moment, that I may but try
Thy goodness once, again, before I Dye.
Lord I have sinn'd, 'tis true, I do confess
My Error, and my black unrighteousness.
What shall I do! how shall I answer find
To thee, the great preserver of Mankind!
As worst of sinners, Lord, thou dost me treat,
For as my Sins, so are my Judgements great.
Th'hast set me gainst thee, as a Mark, or Butt,
At which thy pointed Arrows thou dost shoot,
With Torments hast me so o'reloadened,
That long ago of Life I'm wearied.
My Error, and my black unrighteousness.
What shall I do! how shall I answer find
To thee, the great preserver of Mankind!
As worst of sinners, Lord, thou dost me treat,
For as my Sins, so are my Judgements great.
Th'hast set me gainst thee, as a Mark, or Butt,
At which thy pointed Arrows thou dost shoot,
With Torments hast me so o'reloadened,
That long ago of Life I'm wearied.
Why should thy wrath continually burn,
'Gainst a poor sinner! O let Grace return,
Pardon my sins: wash from iniquity
The Soul thou gavst me, Lord, before I dye.
Let me of Mercy hear the joyful sound,
For in an instant I shall not be found.
I dye, I dye, my Passing Bell doth Toul,
Have Mercy, Lord, have Mercy on my Soul.
'Gainst a poor sinner! O let Grace return,
Pardon my sins: wash from iniquity
The Soul thou gavst me, Lord, before I dye.
Let me of Mercy hear the joyful sound,
For in an instant I shall not be found.
I dye, I dye, my Passing Bell doth Toul,
Have Mercy, Lord, have Mercy on my Soul.
| The grand Tryal | |