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.

III.

II.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

Cap. 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.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

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Cap. XIV.

1. Man that is born of a woman, is of few days, and full of trouble.

Man of a Woman born in cares, and teares,
Enjoyes a few, but miserable Years.
He sucks in sorrow, with his infant Breath,
And, in his husk, he bears the seeds of death.
In his short life he nothing doth perceive,
But Seas of troubls, Wave succeeding Wave.
He knows no pleasure, nor contentment he,
Nor is he ever from some passion free.
Yet must this wretch be born.—
Though it were better for him certainly
He were not born, than thus be born to dye.
'Twere better for him he lay buried,
With all his hopes about him, covered
With the thin notion of an entity,
Under the arch of possibility,
Then that he should exist.—
But O he must be born, he must appear
On Earths wide, and capacious Theater,
To act, with mighty pomp, and vanity,
His part o'th' fable of mortality,
Though 'twere but fool o'th' play.—

For whilst i'th' womb he safely lyes immur'd
Free of all woe, of aliment secur'd
By others labour, yet he thinks he's there,
At best, but a well treated Prisoner.
Hence in the belly languishlng he lyes,
And fain would make escape, to feed his eyes,
On things abroad, and fully satiate

His Virgin-longing, with—he knows not what.—
At length impatient of this kind restraint,
He'l be no longer in this Cloyster pent,
But with his fellow-mortals he'l b'acquaint,
At any rate, what e're the event be,
And in this humour, justles out to see
This foolish world.—
This world, of which he fancies some such things,
As Beggars, when they dream they're mightie kings:
And yet no sooner into it he peeps,
Then instantly the changeling cryes, and weeps;
Appearing in some inward perturbation,
As disappointed of his expectation:
In it he wastes his time in fear, and pain,
And oft of being born he doth complain,
Yet when he goes out of it, weeps again.
As if unwilling, after all, to part,
(Sad as it is) from what his soul, and heart
Doth truly love, which that he might possess,
He could dispense with all its painfulness.

Inconstant Creature!—whom no state can please,
To whom nor life, nor death can purchase ease;
Whose humorous fancy nought can satisfy:
Who knows not whether he should live, or dye!
Yet is this man, of so much worth, and fame,
Whom all the Creatures have in great esteem.
This, this is he, who is so vainly proud
Of the three souls, which God has him allow'd,
Whilst those, who do his actions strictly view,
Hardly believe that he has more than two:
For of the third he takes so little care,
As one would say his reason lay not there:
So that of all endu'd with growth, and sense,
He least deserves that heavenlie influence.

This, this is man, who doth no sooner come
A native, naked Beggar, from the womb,
Then assoon Food, and Rayment God provides
For him, with every other thing besides,
Of which he stands in need:—ordering all
The other Creatures to attend his call.
Yet, after all, when he's accommodat
By Providence, at such a princelie rate,
The wretch becomes to him the most ungrate
Of any thing, that lives.—
For, as we know Beggars can bear no wealth,
So, now endu'd with riches, health, and strength,
In these external things he puts his trust,
And quite forgets, who rais'd him from the dust.

This is that formal piece of dullest clay,
That moulded, and unmoulded every day.
A thing from Heavens only with breath inspir'd,
That he, who gave this breath might be admir'd,
And not the thing, that breaths: yet on this breath
The Grashoper himself so valueth;

As he, with lofty pride, and arrogance,
Above his fellow-creatures doth advance,
And thinks the world his sole inheritance.
Whilst many Brutes (as we may daily see)
Both longer time, and with more peace, than he,
Possesse the same: for he poor soul—alace,
Can scarce enjoy, but for one half hours space,
The full possession of what life, and breath
Affords him, when an enemy call'd Death,
Doth turn him out of all, and then annon,
Ere he can view it well, he must be gone.

This is the Source, from which, by progresse springs,
The Stream of all our Emperours, and Kings,
Those men, who with an armed foppery,
Blow up the pipes of vain Chronology:
Those men, who, when in their carreer withstood,
Will make the world swim around in blood,
Only to purchase to themselves a name,
And never think to have their fill of fame,
Whilst mean time, (ah poor souls! how Iregrate
There as ridiculous, as illustrious state!)
With all their glorious power they but appear
To us like squibs, that squandring here and there,
Put the admiring rabble in a fear,
Who know not what they are, but men of sense
Are not afraid of of their impertinence;
For in an instant, as with crackling noise,
Affording only sport to wanton Boyes,
These fly in smoak, so these men in a tryce,
After they've damp'd us with their cruelties,
Afford us sport in their own Tragedies.

This then is Man who rambles every where,
To catch a name, who doth no labour spare
T'attain his point: running, he cares not whether,
Killing, and spoiling, mixing all together,
In his hot fury: sparing no expence,
To show the world his great magnificence:
Whilst really, he's but like one of those,
Who, at our Fairs, do set up publick Shows;
And with his Drums, and Trumpets makes a noise,
In Streets, and Lanes, assembling all the Boyes,
And Girles about the Town but by and by,
His Licence now run out, he silently
Packs up his Trinkets, and by break of day,
Out of the Town he meanly sneaks away.
So man, on Earth, for a small term of years,
Makes no small noise, and then he disappears.

Have you not seen a silly Butter-flee
Attacque the flaming light, and wantonly
Hover about it, for some little space,
Until its wings begin to burn apace;
And then the helpless Creature, in a tryce,
Sticks to the Candle, spurns a while, and dyes.
So on this dangerous Earth.—

Stuck full of all the species of death
Th'adventuring mortal arm'd with single breath,
Boldlie appears.—what next?—why in he flies,
Buzzes a while about the world, and dies.

Is this the thing then we call Man! alace
This the Heir-Male of the first mortals race!
This Man of Woman born, whose foolish years
Are wasted in a tract of cares, and tears!
If this be he, that proud and, lofty creature,
Who calls himself the Master-peece of Nature,
Why sure he seems to me so mean a thing,
As he is hardly worth our mentioning.

Strange then kind Females should be at such pain,
In bringing to the world a thing so mean!
A thing, which valued by just Estimation,
Is scarcely worth the pains of Procreation

Yet, after all, (say of him, what we can,)
This empty thing is all we have for Man.
Yes in this very piece of miniature,
So long indeed, as Heavens, and Earth endure,
We see the Image, Glory, Wit, and Power,
Of him, who fram'd him; so that, to this hour,
In this same Man, with no small admiration,
We read th'Abridgment of the whole creation.
This is the Lord of Earth:—yes this is he,
Who holds o'th' King of Heaven, in capite,
This goodly Mannor, and that as appears,
In Mort main too, to him, and all his Heirs,
For payment only of some Tears and Pray'rs.
I this same fair and fruitful Seigniory
Was once indeed his settled Property,
For ever in his Person to endure,
Full, and in peace, before the forfeiture.

But, O thou man, to whom in Paradise,
This fair Appanage God did first demise,
Man not of Woman born, thou poorly sold,
(What was not to be purchassed for Gold)
Both thine, alace, and our felicity,
For a mean toy; and for thy fault, we dye.
Ah! hadst not thou, with dull indifference,
Exchang'd thy opulent state of Innocence,
For this poor mortal state, which we possess,
What Art could have express'd man's happiness?
He could for ever have retain'd his breath,
And bid defyance to the force of death;
He had, with great convenience, eat his Bread,
And call'd himself the Lord of Earth indeed.
But now, that in continued miseries,
He lives a while, then miserably dies,
He owes to thee: and for thy curious Crime,
He and his Race are eaten up by time,
As Oxen eat up Grass.—

Then what are all these things we pleasures call,
Wealth, Honours, Issue, Fame!—What are they all?

When man must dye!—when he must formally
Abandon all these pleasant things, and dye!
Yes dye, and as into the world he came,
Naked, and poor, go out of it the same.

2. He shooteth forth as a flewer, & is cut down, he flyeth also as a shadow, & continueth not.

For, as a flower its beauty doth display,
And suddainly doth moulder, and decay:
So man in gay, and verdant youth appears,
Most glorious in the Summer of his years;
Void of all sorrow, and anxiety,
Spread like a Garden-flower: but by, and by,
When he is cross'd with thoughts, and businesse,
His Tulip-colours disappear apace.
And, as a shadow, when the Sun is gone,
Appears no more, but vanisheth annon,
So all his beauty vanisheth, and now
Wrinkles succeed it, and, with much ado,
His face is known to those, who formerly
Knew him i'th' days of adolescency.
At length Time fairly turns his Glass; and now
The Fable's done, and there's no more to do
But that—
Wrapp'd up in Home-spun Winding-sheet (O brave!
The Lord of Earth be thrown into his Grave.

3. Yet dost thou open thine eyes on such a one, and bringst me into judgement with thee.

Almighty God! what fluctuating thing
Is this same Man! how frail, and perishing!
How subject to himself! how much a slave
To passion, from the Belly to the Grave!
Nay such a piece of meer formality,
(Though Mantled with a glorious vanity
Of Wit, Birth, Riches, Learning, Honours, all,
Which he doth his appurtenances call)
That even himself, when, with impartial eye,
In Reasons Looking glass, he doth survey
His worldly state, perceives that all he can
Pretend, at most to, is—to be a Man.
A man of woes, and sorrows, cires and fears,
A poor retainer to some painful years.
A short-lif'd man, who rarely doth attain
To th'age of sixty, and doth still complain
Either of pains of Body, or of Mind,
So long as within bounds of Life confin'd.
So that, if th'hadst not let him understand,
He's chief of all the Labours of thy Hand;
He'd think himself, in this same contemplation,
The very meanest part of the Creation.

Yet dost thou, Lord, thou high, and Heavenly King,
Take special notice of this foolish thing:
Thou look'st upon him, with a careful eye,
And tak'st the pains, for his security,
T'enclose him, with a wall of Providence,
And keeps't a constant Watch, for his Defence,
Both day, and night: so that the power of Hell
Cannot against him with their Plots, prevail,
Whilst guarded thus, and so well fortified

By his Creators Art on every side.
Yes, and of late too, I was one of those,
Whom thou, with a strong Rampart did'st enclose:
But now thou hast deserted me, and I
Unfenc'd lye open to the Enemy.
Now my accusers, in great throngs, do bring
Their several Charges before thee, my King:
Before thee I as Criminal appear
At Bar, and am environed with fear:
Now thou dost try me: now thou dost intend
To bring me quickly to a shameful end.

4. Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? no not one.

Lord, what am I!—a wretched dying thing,
Not worth thy wrath, not worth thy noticing:
Why try'st' me then, with such severity,
And of my actings maks't such scrutiny,
As if, of all men, I had most transgress'd
Thy Divine Laws: thou hear'st I have confess'd
I am a sinner:—dost thou. Lord, expect
That mortal man can other answer make,
When thou dost charge him with impiety,
Then I do now:—I do not, Lord, deny
That all the Judgements I do now endure
Were merit long ago: for I am sure
That man was never born, since Adams Fall,
That can affirm he never sinn'd at all.
What then wouldst' have me say?—I do confess
I am all sin, I am all guiltinesse:
Can any thing that's good from me proceed?
No sure, then judge me, for I cannot plead
Not guilty: I'm unclean, and who can bring
That which is clean, out of an unclean thing?

5. Are not his days determined? the number of his months are with thee, thou hast appointed his bounds, which he cannot passe.

Then, since it is so, since I cann't deny
I have abounded in iniquity:
Since I'm found guilty, and condemn'd, why then,
I ask but what is granted amongst men,
On such occasions, to a Criminal,
Who freely at the Bar confesses all
Of what he hears himself accus'd, and so
Himself on mercy of the Court doth throw.
Then what I beg, great Judge, what I demand
Is not to live (because I understand,
As I, am sadly circumstantiat now,
Death will oblige me more, than Life can do.)
But only, since I have confess'd my Crime,
I may be but reprived for some time:
That I may have some leasure to repent,
And not, at least, out of the World be sent,
With all my sins about me.—

Remember, Lord, how man is in his prime,
But a poor Gleaner of a scattered time:
A calculator of some triffling years:
An Almanack of sorrows, woes, and tears.
Are not his days and months determined?
His bounds design'd, which he cannot exceed?

6. Turn from him then that he may cease, until his desired day, as an hireling.

Let then his bitter persecution cease,
That, for some time this Creature may have peace:
That he, at least, may be allow'd to live,
Until the time appointed shall arrive
When he must die:—the day, wherein he must
Quite this vain world, and return to Dust.
For, as a Hireling labourer doth attend
The hour, which to his Work may put an end,
That he may have his Wages, and some rest
From his hard labour: so, with cares oppress't,
Poor Man for his appointed time doth wait
Wherein his foolish labours soon, or late
May have an end; that so the wearied slave
May quietly lye down, and sleep in Grave.

7. For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will yet sprout, and the branches thereof will not cease.

That he may sleep in Grave, and be no more
A slave to sorrow, as he was before,
Though he should there, without all hopes remain,
Of ever seeing his dear World again,
His darling World, which he so much esteem'd;
Of which scarce more than Embryo, he dream'd:
But, when in Grave, he thinks no more upon
His World, for all these notions then are gone.
Those thoughts do with the Carrion buried lye,
And for his Soul, 'tis all Eternity.

Thus then, alace!—ah thus we plainly see
Man's in a worse condition than a Tree:
For of a Tree cut down there's still some hope
It yet may sprout, and spread its lofty top;

8. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof be dead in the ground.

Although its scattered roots now old, and dry,
Sapless, and barren, under Ground may dye:
And what of Trunk remains may every day,
In Dust, and Pouder moulder and decay.

9. Yet by the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.

Yet sucking moisture from some Rivolet,
Whose frugal Streams doth scarce its Channel wet,
It quickly will revive, and bud again,
And, in short time, spread out its Boughs amain,
As formerly, and so arrive, at length
Unto its wonted comliness, and strength,

10. But man is sick, and dyeth, man perisheth, and where is he?

But ah poor man upon his Sick-bed lyes,
Sighs out his Breath, and like a Candle dyes
Drown'd in its Socket, without hopes, alace!
Of ever living in his former case,
Without all hopes, not sprouting like a Tree,
Only falls sick, and dyes—and where is he?

11. As the waters pass from the sea, & the flood decayeth and dryeth up.

Ah where is he!—he who did once appear,
And thought of nothing less than death, while here:
Where is he now?—where is this rambler gone?
What's become of him?—pray' what has he done?
What has Earths darling done, that he should dye,
And slip out of the World so shamefully?
Why Man is gone: he's now no more:—he's dead,
He's now in deep oblivion burried:
There's no more of him.—For as Floods, and Seas
Are dryed up, when Waters from them pass

To other Channels: so man vanisheth,
And is an empty nothing after death.

12. So man sleepeth, and riseth not, for he shall not awake again, nor be raised from his sleep while the heavens be no more.

A nothing!—nay—hold here, I must correct
My error, and in this my passion check.
For, though to outward view, and reasoning,
Man in his Grave appears to be a thing
Useless, trod under foot, esteem'd by none
But hurryed in supine oblivion:
Yet this same Trunk, which under ground doth lie
Wants not its hope of Immortality,
For, after many years it may revive,
Shake off its Circumambient Dust, and live
More firm, and solid than it did before,
In a continued peace, and die no more.
Yes, as the waters from the Ocean flow
Through Subterraneous Passages, that so
They in Earths Bowels may be purifi'd,
And free of former saltness, gently slide
Through clifts of rocks, and unknown passages
Into some thirsty Channel, and encrease
Its dwindling Streams, then by degrees amain
Return to their own Ocean again.
So from the Sea of Life man softlie flowes
Into the Grave, where he doth onlie loss
His former saltnesse, and aciditie,
And there in closs Repositure doth lie,
While he be fitted for Eternity.
'Tis true he sleeps, and shall not rise before
Th'appointed time that Heavens shall be no more:
But when that time shall come, that blessed time,
No new-blowen Rose, no Lilly in its prime
Shall smell so fragrant, and appear so fair,
So livelie, so in beautie singular,
So fresh, so gay, so bright, so purifi'd,
As this same man, who we suppos'd had die'd,
Shrunk into dust, and in cold earth engross't,
This man, whom we had given o're for lost;
When that bless'd time arrives, shall re-appear
More pure, and act in a most glorious Sphere,
Than ere the Scenick Creature could do here.

13. O that thou wouldst hide me in the grave, and keep me secret untill thy wrath were past, and wouldst give me a term, and remember me.

Thrice happy those then, who in grave do rest,
Whom no sad crosses of this life infest!
How much I envy their Felicity!
How fain would I enjoy their company.
Lord, then that thou wouldst hide me in this grave!
Good Lord, that such a wretch as I might have
The benefit of that closs Sanctuary,
In which I might, but for a season, tarry,
Until thy wrath were past, thy anger gone,
And those had storms of Judgments overblown:
Then, of thy goodnesse, please to let me know
How long I must those Torments undergo:
How long my sufferings must endure, and then
Remember me, in mercy, once again.

O let me find thy kindnesse, once before
I drop out of this World, and be no more.

14. If a man dye, shall he live again? all the days of my appointed time will I wait till, while my change come.

But O I see my torments do encreasse,
And, whilst I live, shall enjoy no peace.
I therefore wish to dye, as those oppress't
With toile, and labour, wish to be at rest.
Now, if a man once in this Gulf of Death
Be drown'd, pray shall he re-assume his Breath?
Shall he revive?—yes,—yes—he shall indeed,
And never more again be buried.
I'l therefore wait, I'l therefore patiently
Attend th'arrival of Eternity.
At least I'l wait, until the hour shall come
That must restore me; which although to some
It be a question, it to me is none,
For, with assurance, I relye upon
My Makers goodnesse, and believe that God
Will to my sufferings set a period.

15. Thou shalt call me, and I shall answer thee, thou lovest the work of thine own hands.

Then shall my God me once again embrace,
And to me every hour extend his Grace.
Then shall I Make addresse to him, in prayer,
And shall no sooner speak, then he shall hear,
'Shall answer every thing I can demand,
And make me, with great pleasure, understand
The language of the Saints.—

16. But now thou numbrest my steps, and dost not delay my sins.

But now, alace, Lord, thou dost calculat.
My very thoughts: thou dost enumerat
My errors, one by one; and by, and by,
In order they appear before thy eye,
There's no concealing of the smallest sin,
(Though in the breast yet) when thou dost begin
To reckon with us; neither hope, nor fear,
Can shelter them from eyes so sharp, and clear,
But streightways all above board must appear

17. Mine iniquity is sealed up, as in a bag, and thou addest to my wickedness.

When thou dost call. Then all must be reveal'd,
And, on the square be summ'd, ty'd up, and seal'd,
Like Money in a Bag, that thou mayst know,
What each mans judgements to his sins do owe.
Nay, with so strict a survey not content,
Thy anger doth my wickednesse augment.
For even my moral sins are mustered
Before thee, strictly view'd, and numbered,
And I alace, am shrewdly punished
For sins, which in some others virtues are,
And, in the Worlds eyes, lawful do appear.

18. And surely as the mountain cometh to nought, and the rock that is removed from his place.

Then must I thus be punished, good Lord?
Thus—without pity?—wilt thou not afford
But some small respite to my wearied Soul,
That I may have some leasure to condole
My sad disasters:—Lord have pity then
On me the most disconsolat of men.
Some respite I beseech, some interval,
Some breathing time, though it were ne'r so small!
So many judgements, for one poor mans share!

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Sure, Lord, such dealing is not ordinar.
Who can endure thy anger? at this rate,
'Twould tear the very Rocks out of their Seat,
'Twould make the proudest Mountains tumble down,
And crumble into thousand pieces soon.

19. As the waters break the stones, when thou over-flowest the the things which grow in the dust of the earth, so thou destroyest the hope of man.

Such wrath would make the wounded Ocean roar,
And spread its Billows far beyond its Shore.
'Twould cause a Deluge in the Earth:—such wrath
Would kill all Cratures, that on it do breath.
For, as the Waters hardest stones do break,
When through the grounds a rapid course they take,
So, by thy anger Man is broke to pieces,
Pounded to dust: and as thy wrath encreases,
So all his hopes decay, and in a tryce.
Poor pensive Man whines out his life, and dyes.

20. Thou prevailest against him, so that he passeth away, he changeth his face, when thou castest him away.

Unhappy Man!—alace his hopes still fail,
And 'gainst him, Lord, thou alwayes dost prevail.
Thy hand doth reach him, when he least doth dream,
Of danger, then, with infamy, and shame,
He steals out of the World, he slips away,
Like the Night-vapours, at approach of day.
And, as a Thief, whom huy, and cry doth chace,
Lest he be catch'd, disfigures all his face,
So, with sad grinnings, Man to Grave doth pass,

21. And he knoweth not if his sons shall be honourable, neither shall he understand concerning them, if they be of low degree.

He dyes,—he dyes,—he's buried annon,
And with him all his Troops of hopes are gone.
His Sons survive him, but he knows not how
Those men demean themselves, nor what they do:
To what profession they they themselves betake,
What Figure in this Life those Fools do make:
What part they act: what state they represent,
I'th' Theatre of the World: whether content
With the sweet Blessings of a privat Life,
Or, if involv'd in a continual strife,
In tedious Pleas, in Fraud, and Perjury,
To raise a thing men call a Family.
No,—he knows not what men his Sons shall be,
Preferr'd to honours, or of low degree.

22. But while his fllesh is upon him, he shall be sorrowfull, and while his soul is in him, it shal mourn.

Though here, with great anxiety, and care,
He eats his own Flesh, for his dayly Fare.
In flames of grief his very Heart doth burn,
And, whilst his Soul is in him, it doth mourn,
When he but thinks, in what condition
His Family shall be, when he is gone.
Whilst, with a Femal curiosity,
He endeavours to learn, before he dye,
What shall be th'state of his Posterity.
He'd fain ascertain his ill-purchas'd wealth
Upon his brats, what he has got, by Stealth,
By Fraud, by Rapine, Lying, and Debate,
Upon his Race he'd fain perpetuat.
Entails, in strictest form he causes draw,
As if he would to Providence give Law:

101

As if he'd regulat the Winds, and show
Out of what Point they constantly should blow:
Or fetter up the raging Ocean,
And make it alwayes calm:—so foolish man,
By strong Entails, in form of Covenant,
Stuff'd up with threatning clauses irritant,
With substitutions, and—I know not what—
(All legal fetters,) fain would captivat
Some little spot of Earth, and there enstate
His Family, with that perfection,
That Providence on Earth allows to none.

Thus vainly toyls this Mole, but after all,
When Death for him doth peremptorly call,
He leaves these thoughts, and so he leaves his Race,
To save, or spend, and live, even as they please.