The grand Tryal :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Clarke, William (fl. 1684-1688)

II.

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VII.

VIII.

IX.

Cap. X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

III.

XVI.

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XVIII.

XIX.

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XXVII.

XXVIII.

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XXX.

XXXI.

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XXXIII.

XXXIV.

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XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

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XLII.

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Cap. X.

1. My soul is cut off, though I live I will leave my complaint on my self, and I will speak in the bitterness of my soul.

My Soul's cut off, and though I seem to breath,
Yet am I coop'd up in the jaws of death.
My Soul is fled, my days of life are gone,
And this poor widow'd Body left alone,
To be the subject of some country fable,
As in its ruines only memorable.
This fashion'd piece of Earth, which formerly
One would ha' thought, would shift Mortality.
For many years: a Body which of late,
In health, and vigour, fully animate
With a most cheerful Soul, seem'd to imply,
As if at least some small felicity
Were to be found below the Heavens: this point
Of the Creation framed joint, by joint,
Into a reasonable shape, at last
By griefs consuming fury quite defac't,
Has now no figure, but doth every day
Like Wax before the Candle, melt away.
For, as a stranded Vessel, by no hands,
To be got off, and sticking on the Sands,
Obnoxious to the rage of every Tide,
Whilst each rude Wave beats ribs out of its side:
In its dimensions every day decreases,

Until at length 'tis shattered all to pieces,
And then what was a statelie Ship before,
In Planks and Boards is cast upon the Shore.
So this frail Body, which in health, and strength,
Look'd like a tall Ship, in its Course, at length,
Stranding upon the Shelves of foul diseases,
In its proportion every hour decreases.
And that it may be ruin'd with dispatch,
Each ulcerous Billow doth large Gobbets snatch
Out of that vigorous Body, which alace,
Is now in a most despicable case.
Hence what remains is that this shattered frame,
Void of all honour, beautie, shape, and name.
Should, like infected Goods by no man own'd,
In Skin and Bones be hurried under ground.

Then what is Life!—O let me but admire,
What idle expectation can hire
Insipid man upon this Earth to dwell,
And love that thing, which we call Life, so well!
Life—like the Mornings-dew upon the Grass,
Exhal'd e're Noon-tide; Life a simple lease,
At will, and pleasure of a homelie Farm
For us to toile in, where we're hardly warm,
In the possession of it, when anon,
Our Lease runs out, and we must all be gone.
Life but the parcels of a few years breath,
Summ'd up at last i'th' capital of death,
Times wast-book: health. and strengths extinguisher,
Heavens great derider: Hells remembrancer.
The old mans profit, and the young mans loss,
The rich mans Idol, and the poor mans cross:
Sins active Pander for some little space,
Then to Repentance a sad looking glass.
Pleasures mean vassal, times obedient slave,
And a most faithful servant to the Grave.
Death charges Time, Time charges Life, by Roll,
To make account of every living Soul:
The grand Collector, by just calculation,
Himself discharges of each Generation.
In deaths exchequer, then begins afresh,
T'exact the impost of all living flesh.

This is that we call Life, this is the thing,
Of which poor Mortals make such reckoning,
As if the sum of all their happiness,
Lay in their breathing for some little space.
Alace that men of reason thus should lye
Sick of an universal phrenesie:
And not rouz'd up at length perceive, for shame,
What is this Life, which they so much esteem.
This Life,—a thing so burdensome to me,
As how I hate it you do clearly see.

May I not then oppress't with Life repine.
Since there's no Life comparable to mine?
The dregs of Life, that do with me remain,

Are but the meer fomenters of my pain:
For who extended night and day, on rack
Would not, with all his heart Death welcome make?
O let me then to God make my address;
O let me to himself my woes express:
He is a God of mercy, and will hear
Th'oppress't, and have regard to every tear
That drops from pious eyes.—
A sore complaint then on my self I'l make,
And in the anguish of my Soul I'l speak.

2. I will say unto God condemn me not, and why dost thou contend with me?

I'l say to God, condemn me not; and why
Wilt thou contend with such a thing as I,
An Eagle take the pains to kill a flee!
Contend with me,!—a thing not to be nam'd,
A thing, of which even Nature is asham'd,
A piece of Earth, that serving for no use,
Is thrown out on the Dung-hill as refuse,
The dross of human frailty, the abstract
Of all, that's mouldy, low, decay'd, and crack't.
A thing now grating at the gates of death,
Retarded only by a gasping breath;
A thing so mean as is not worth thy wrath.

3. Thinkest thou it good to oppress me, and to cast off the labours of thy hands, and favour the wicked?

Then why, good Lord, dost thou take so much pleasure,
T'oppress so mean a thing, beyond all measure?
What doth this to thy Glory contribute?
How doth such usage with thy Justice sute?
Alace I know not how the matter stands,
But thus t'undo the labour of thy hands,
Thus to destroy a Creaure thou didst frame,
And once didst think it worthy of a name:
Nay, as thy Creature, thou was't pleas'd to own,
Thus to reject it, with a sullen frown,
Me thinks is strange.—What may the Atheists say,
When thy own servants are oppress't this way?
Why they will surely, in their scoffing mode,
Blaspheme the ever glorious Name of God.
See here, they'l say, a man, who seriously
Apply'd his mind to th'art of piety,
Who his great God, above all things ador'd;
A most devoted Servant to his Lord.
One, who not pleas'd with what his neighbours us'd,
Despised their Religion, and refus'd
T'acknowledge any of their Deities,
But, in a zealous phrensy, did devise,
A Deitie to himself peculiar,
Out of an humour to be singular.
See now, they'l say, see how his God doth treat him,
See how his Lord, he so much lov'd, doth hate him.
How he doth whip him:—how he takes delite
To vex a man, who us'd himself to write
A most obedient Servant to his God,
See how he beats him with a heavie Rod.
Let him complain, weep, pray, do what he can,
Let him cry out, yet still this pious man

Finds none to comfort, pity, or deplore him,
And for his God, 'has no compassion for him,
But, on the contrair, doth appear t'abhor him.
Sure this will be their language; thus alace,
Those impious wretches will themselves express,
Yes this will be their Table-task, I fear,,
O then forbear, for thy own sake, forbear
Thus to torment me, lest in plaguing me,
These men conclude that all who honour thee
Will be thus us'd—O do not gratify
Those bold professours of impiety,
In my so sad, and grievous punishment,
But please, good Lord, to let thy wrath relent,
And from those cruel torments, set me free,
That such, as do contemn thy Laws, may see
How merciful a God thou art, how just,
How kind to such, as in thee place their trust.

4. Hast thou carnal eyes, or dost thou see, as man seeth.

But why should I presume thus to express,
What thou well know'st, and I at best but guess.
Thou, who didst all things frame, dost all things know
Those hateful sinners will blaspheme thee so,
If thou continue thus to torture me,
Thus I suspect, but thou dost plainly see
Thy eyes, O Lord, are not of humane fashion.
Obnoxious in the least, to fascination:
No, no, my God, I know thy piercing eye
Doth, at one glance, the whole Creation spy,
Its Horizon being sole ubiquity,

5. Are thy days as mans days, or thy years as the time of man.

Nor are thy days, O Lord, like those of man,
So that we might thy time by numbers scane,
No, Lord, thy days surpass our admiration,
And scorn th'endeavours of our Computation,
For who will undertake to calculat
That time, which by no time is limitat?
That immense time, whose vast extent doth lye
'Twixt the two Tropicks of Eternity,
Whose hours, and minutes are innumerable,
As is its durance unimaginable;
I know, good Lord, no time can comprehend
What no Beginning had, and had no End.

6. That thou enquirest of mine iniquity, and searchest out my sin.

Now, since 'tis so, then let me understand,
What is the reason (if I dare demand)
Why thou a God so high, and excellent,
Dost take such pleasure in my punishment?
Why thou shouldst give such out-let to thy wrath,
As to pursue thy servant to the death?
Why thou shouldst make such formal inquisition
After my sins, and call for exhibition
Of all my hidden thoughts: as if thou meant,
By such harsh dealing, to make evident
Thy hatred to thy Creature, and proclaim
To all the World, what I conceal, for shame:
Thy torturing me thus doth plainly speak,
The language of a hot, inveterat picque.

From thee such usage is not ordinar,
For thou'rt not subject as we Mortals are,
To passion, and revenge: then let me know
what have I done, that thou shouldst bait me so,
What have I to thy anger contribute,
That, with such hatred, thou shouldst prosecute
The reliques of a man, the vanity
Of Life, the ruins of Mortalitie?

7. Thou knowest that I cannot do wickedly, for none can deliver me out of thy hand.

Ah Lord, however I have sinn'd before,
Yet now thou seest I can do so no more:
For thou dost keep me in an Iron Cage,
In which I wast the gleanings of my age.
In sad reflections on my by past times,
Calling to mind a thousand horrid Crimes
I have committed, for which constantly
I beg for mercy from thy Majesty.
But now, although I would, I cann't do ill,
My Soul thou so with bitterness dost fill;
No power of sinning doth with me remain,
Unless thou judge it sinful to complain:
And, if complaints be sinful, then alace,
No humane language can my sins expresse.
I am indeed most guilty of that sin,
For, in this moment, I do but begin
My sore complaint. Nay though I cry in vain,
And though I to no purpose do complain,
Yet can I not forbear to give some vent
To that huge grief, which doth my Soul torment.

8. Thine hands have made me, and fashioned me round about, and wilt thou destroy me?

Ah, Lord, didst thou not frame me? didst not thou
To me, at Birth, a humane shape allow?
Didst thou not mould, and fashion me around?
Of many simples didst not me compound?
And wilt thou now this goodly frame destroy.
In whose Composing thou didst Art employ?
Wilt thou this thing, by second operation,
Reduce to th'state of primitive Creation,
And end thy Labours, in annihilation?

9. Remember I pray thee that thou hast made me, as the clay and wilt thou bring me into dust again?

Remember, Lord, how thou of clay didst frame
This Figure, to which thou didst give the Name
Of Body—breath'd upon't, and made it live,
Then to't a certain lease of Life didst give:
Thou taught it how to think, to speak, and act,
And entered with this Creature in Contract,
By which thou didst engage it to maintain,
And wilt thou now unravel all again?

10. Hast thou not poured me out, like milk, and turned me to curds, like cheese?

Didst thou not pour me out, like Milk, and lay
My first foundation in a drop of Whay?
Which in warm Vessels kindly entertain'd,
For some small time, a liquid thing remain'd,
Then from the serous matter separate,
In a moist ball it did coagulate,
of such a form, as on the Cruds would squeeze,
Into the globous figure of a Cheese.

11. Thou cloathed me with skin, and flesh, and joined me together, with bones and sinews.

Then didst thou, by an Art inimitable.
Translate me from a simple vegetable,
Into a well-compacted sensitive,
And, from that hour, appointedst me to live.
With Bones, and Sinews then thou didst me knit,
And wrapp'd me in a Damask Coverlet,
Of Nerves, and Muscles; and (though yet a Brute)
Thou cloathedst me in a most goodly Sate
Of Ivory Skin: a Suite accommodate
For every Season, every Rank, and State:

12. Thou hast given me life and grace and thy visitation hath preserved my spirit.

When thou had thus apparell'd me, and I
Now entered junior of Mortality;
Then I begun to rouze, and stir apace,
And with my Sense my Hunger did increase,
I call'd for Food, which thou didst soon prepare,
And furnish'd me, (though a close prisoner
In the dark Womb) yet didst thou every day,
By secret Canals, to my mouth convey
Fresh Victuals, in good ease: then after all,
Was't please t'infuse the spirits animal,
And I became a creature rational.

Thus having past my course of Generation,
Each hour, I waited for a fair occasion,
To launch out in the Worlds great Ocean,
And enter my Apprentisage to Man.
After nine Months imprisonment, at length
Having obtain'd some tolerable strength,
At a Spring-tide of humours, I set out
Of th'Harbour of the Womb, with such a shout,
With such a dreadful Peal of Groans, with such
Hard tugging, sweating, wrestling, and so much
Sad labour, toile, and crying out (for all,
Who see me launching still more hands did call)
As I begun of passage to despair,
And hadst not thou, my God, of me tane care,
For all my strength, I ne're had pass'd the Bar.

But after all this labour, toile, and sweat,
By which I was almost exanimate,
After, with main force, I had wrestled out,
And now amaz'd, begun to stare about,
And view this New found-world, which to that hour
I ne're had heard of, nor e're seen before:
Then thou, by instinct, mad'st me weep amain,
('Cause all I view'd, was transient, and vain,)
And wish that I were in the Womb again.

Yet, since thou hadst ordain'd that I should live,
Thou, in thy wisdom, didst think fit to give,
Reason and Knowledge to me, whereby I
Might learn to live, by learning first to dye.
Thou didst preserve me by thy Providence,
Thy Grace was to my Soul a strong defence,
'Gainst all temptations: thy Paternal care
Did for my Body daily Food prepare.
To thee alone, Lord, (th'hast oblig'd me so)

My Birth, my Being, all that's good I owe

13. Though thou hast hid these things in thine heart, yet I know that is so with thee.

But what needs further, Lord, I do confess
I owe more to thee, then I can express:
For reckoning all my Life-time o're, and o're,
I find I'm in thy debt still more, and more,
So that at length I'm broke upon the score.
For who so guilty of ingratitude,
What man so void of reason, who so rude,
Whoso unthinking, as when he begins
To reckon up thy mercies, and his sins,
But will acknowledge he's oblig'd to thee,
(Though punish'd, tortur'd, and oppress'd like me)
When he considers how thou formerly
Hast guarded him, since his Nativity,
From what had else befaln him, hadst not thou,
Both own'd him kindly, and supply'd him too,
With all things for his life convenient,
Since the first hour he to the world was sent.
And then, if any man perhaps intend,
Some small proportion of his time to spend,
I'th' ferious, and useful contemplation
Of the so much to be admir'd Creation:
And view the order of thy Providence,
How to each living Soul thou dost dispense
Thy Justice, and thy mercy, instantly
He'd find his Reason in an extasie;
Whilst linking second causes, in a chain,
By thumbing of 'em, he'd attempt, in vain
To fathom, what no Art can comprehend.
And then at length he'd find there is no end
In searching of such things, and so give o're
His inquisition, and will dive no more
In that abyss, but end his contemplation
In a profound, and humble admiration:
Acknowledging that, save to thee alone,
Those Mysteries can not at all be known.

14. If I have sinned then thou wilt strictly look unto me and wilt not hold me guiltless of mine iniquity.

Thou, Lord, hast all things made, dost all things spy?
Nothing can be concealed from thy Eye:
For what man labours, by his foolish art,
To lock up in the Cabin of his Heart,
And thinks a secret, to thee, Lord, is known,
As well, as what to publicque view is shown.
If I have sinn'd then, thou wilt instantly
Look, with a most sever, enquiring Eye
Upon my Errors, and wilt not acquit
Me from the Censure that is just, and fit,
To be on man inflicted, in such cases,
But wilt, most justly, as my sin encreases,
Add to my punishment, and possibly
Entail wy woes on my Posterity.

15. If I have done wickedly, wo unto me, if I have done righteously I will not lift up my head, being full of confusion, because I see my affliction,

Why then, if I have sinn'd, I am undone,
And merit to be pitied by none,

Because I knew thy Justice would not spare
For all excuses, such as guilty are:
Hence if I've sinn'd, my Doom I plainly read:
If not, I will not yet lift up my head,
Or say 'th'least that I am innocent,
Because I fear a furder punishment
But still imagine that I guilty am,
And, in thy presence, hide my face, for shame,
I'l live in great humility, and fear,
For no man in thy sight, can just appear.

16. But let it encrease, hunt thou me as a lyon, return, and show thy self marvellous upon me.

But how soe're o the matter be, good Lord,
Proceed thou to destroy me, in a word,
Let loose the Reins of thy consuming Wrath,
And never leave me, whilst the Gates of Death
Fly open to receive me: Let thy Rage,
By close pursute, abridge my lingring age.
Never give o're, but rouze me every day,
With the same view, as Lyons hunt their Prey:
Break me to pieces, do, and so express,
Thy self admir'd in my unworthiness.

17. Thou renewest thy plagues against me, and thou encreasest thy wrath against me, changes and armies of sorrows are against me.

For, rather than in such sad torments lye,
'Twere better far I instantly should dye.
Let me then quickly be undone, let all
Thy heavie plagues at once upon me fall;
And not by Piece-meal, every day augment
The several species of my punishment,
And thus each hour thy dreadful Chace renue,
As if thou didst take pleasure to pursue
My wearied Soul.—
Armies of sorrows up 'against me draw,
With all the numerous rude Militia
Of foul diseases, which my Body seize,
Whilst I am to such Cannibals, as these
A daily prey, my sores do still encrease,
And in my Spirit I can have no peace.

18. Wherefore then hast thou brought me out of the womb, O that I had perished, and that no eye had seen me.

Then O why didst thou bring me from the Womb?
Why did I from my Native Cottage come?
Where I no sorrow knew, no trouble felt,
But most secure in peace, and plenty dwelt.
Was it for this that to the World I came!
For this—that ever I was born—for shame!
For this—that e're my Mother should ha' known
The pangs of Child-birth, nay one single groan,
In bringing forh a Creature destinate,
For grief, and sorrow; one, whom God doth hate;
'Gainst whom he doth his angry Sword unsheath,
And every day doth wound him in his Wrath.
But ne're will bless him with the blow of Death.
Would I had perish'd in the Womb, at least
Would I a still-born Embryo, at best
Had dropp'd into the World, and instantly
Had been Box'd up, and Buried, so no eye
Had seen me this side of Mortalitie.

19. And that I were as I had not been, but brought from the womb to the grave.

Would I had been, as though I ne're had been,
Without existence, never heard, or seen:
Would Providence for me had never car'd,
Would my fond Parents had their labour spar'd,
And I a thing without all form, and shape,
Had been conceal'd in Natures modest Lap:
When from the Womb soft hands did me receive,
Would I had fairly slipt into the Grave.

20. Are not my days few, let him cease, and leave off from me, that I may take a little comfort.

But since I am condemn'd,—O since I must,
In a few days, incorporat with Dust:
Since thou, O Lord, wilt call for what is thine;
And I to Worms this Body must resign:
Some little respite, for thy Mercy sake
Allow me, that I may some comfort take.

21. Before I go, and shall not return, even to the land of darkness, and shadow of death.

Before I to the Land of darkness go,
A dismal Land, which never Light did know,
Whence I shall not return, a dreadful Land,
Where pale-fac'd horrour doth in chief command:
Where Worms with Death in council sit, and call
For an account of every Funeral:
Where empty Sculls in heaps are gathered,
And with dry Bones the Land is overspread.

22. Into a land I say, dark as darkness it self, and into the shadow of death where is no order, & the light is there as darkness.

A Land so very dark, no art can trace,
Its true dimensions, or by Map express
Its Scituation, a most barbarous Land,
Whose Laws, and Language none can understand:
A Land of mourning, where no joy is known,
But Mirth, and Sorrow there are both as one.