University of Virginia Library

Again th' Almighty mounts his lofty Throne,
And on his Right Hand sate th' Eternal Son.
The Royal Writs were issued out, to call
Th' Angelick Orders to the Council-Hall.
Forthwith they all obey his high Command,
And from each Province of his spacious Land
The chosen Representatives resort,
And in full Numbers crowd the shining Court.
High Matters, which concern'd their Heav'nly State
Th' August Assembly met there to debate:
But what the Sacred Pages don't express
My humble Muse will not presume to guess.
She thankfully receives what GOD reveals,
And chooses not to know what He conceals.
Heav'ns Sacred Laws and Politicks Divine
She touches not, nor ventures to define
Deep Myst'ries that her mortal Wit transcend,
But silently adores what she can't comprehend.

Amidst the Sacred Senate, thus conven'd
Their mighty Master's Pleasure to attend,
Bold Satan ventures to intrude again,
And slily mingles with the happy Train.
Yet the Almighty 'spy'd him all the while,
And thus upbraids him with a scornful Smile.

Well, Satan, thou hast gain'd the Conquest: See
How plainly Job blasphemes and curses me.
I yielded up my Servant to thy Pow'r,
Without just Cause to be afflicted sore.
Nor hast thou spar'd, but to the full Extent
Of its Commission thy dire Malice went.
Yet still his Pious Temper he maintains;
His matchless Patience yet unmov'd remains,
And o'er thy feeble Rage triumphant reigns.

Thus GOD: And thus GOD's Enemy reply'd,
Yet still he lives, and still he does abide
In perfect Health: For which a Man would sell
All that he has, and think it purchas'd well.
'Tis all without him what he suffers yet:
My strict Commission would no more permit.
He feels no Smart; and that would move him more
Than all the Losses he sustain'd before.

Thus spake the Traytor, and that Piety,
Which made him tremble, thus he did bely.
And GOD, who saw how his false Bosom burn'd
With eager Thirst of Vengeance, thus return'd:

Thou might'st, if Malice had not made Thee Blind,
In thy late ill Success thy future find:
But since thy rash Presumption urges still
For further Leave to tempt, once more I will
Indulge thy Wish. Go, tyrannize it o'er
His Person, as thou didst his Goods before.
But spare his precious Life: Press not in vain
For That; for That thou never shalt obtain.

Th' Almighty spoke, and with an awful Frown
Sent the bold Fiend, half glad, half angry down.
Glad of new Pow'r obtain'd, but angry still
To have it bridled by another's Will.
He thought a perfect Devil should enjoy
A Plenitude of Power to destroy;
A Pow'r unbounded, as his endless Spite,
And, like the Divine Goodness, infinite.
But since he feels (tho' loath) his Rage restrain'd,
And, like a furious Bandog, strongly chain'd,
He adds no more, but leaves the hateful Skies,
And, cursing all that dwell there, down he flies.
And in his Passage sweeps the misty Air,
And gathers all the Surfeits scatter'd there,
Malignant Damps, and Pestilential Steams,
Drawn by some guilty Planet's lowring Beams,
From putrid Carnage, Subterraneous Dens,
And noxious Herbs that grow in Bogs and Fens,
A rich Variety of Plagues, to none
But him, and Witches, his apt Scholars, known.
Whatever Earth, Air, Water could impart
Of Ill, he takes, and works, by Rules of Art,
Into a Mixture, able to bereave
Whole Towns of People, should GOD give him leave.

This done, his Way to Job the Tyrant made,
And as he drank, into his Cup convey'd
The baneful Dose, unseen.
Forthwith the Poyson mingles with his Blood,
And into Flames converts the vital Flood.
The great Physician's Care his Heart did fence,
And by strong Cordials kept the Venom thence:
Not so the other Parts. For they bereft
Of heav'nly Succours, and to Satan left,
Felt the dire Juice's Rage, which outward flew,
And on his Skin of Boyls and Blisters grew
A horrid Crop. No rank, new broke-up Field
A more luxuriant Harvest e'er did yield.
No Place was free from Head to Foot; all o'er
It spread, and stretch'd its Conquests more & more,
Till his whole Body was but one great Sore.
The angry Virus slides along his Veins,
And fills him with intolerable Pains.
His loathsome Pushes the Spectators fright,
And they that lov'd him once, now shun his Sight.
His Friends first look, then start, and turn away:
His meanest Servants prove as nice as they,
And when their Master calls, refuse t'obey.
They all forsake him: Ev'n his dearest Wife,
(Once the Delight and Comfort of his Life)
Now leaves him in Distresses worse than Death;
The dainty Dame can't brook her Husband's Breath,
No Aid nor Pity his Complaints procure:
Nay, ev'n Himself can scarce Himself endure.
Deserted thus on the cold Ground he lies,
And counts the tedious Moments by his Sighs.
A broken Potsherd all his Ease, with which
He scrapes his Flesh, to quench the flaming Itch.
While Day remains, he longs for Night, and then
His restless Sorrows call for Day again.
For when kind Slumbers would awhile refresh
His fainting Spir'ts, and ease his tortur'd Flesh,
The Foe takes ev'n this small Relief away,
And makes the Night uneasy, as the Day.
Then fearful Dreams disturb his burning Head,
And ugly Visions stalk around his Bed.
Pale, angry Ghosts, and ev'ry antick Spright,
That loves to sport and revel in the Night,
Then haunt, and pull, and suffer him to take
As little Rest asleep, as when awake.

Thus lay the Saint beneath the painful Rod,
Yet still he lov'd, and still he prais'd his GOD.
Resolv'd to walk by Faith, and not by Sight,
He bravely triumph'd o'er Hell's useless Spight,
And bow'd with easy Self-denial still
His Sense and Reason to th' Almighty's Will;
Nor was his Tongue once heard to utter ought
That argu'd in his Mind the least rebellious Thought.

And now the Prince of Hell impatient grown
To see his well-built Project overthrown,
Began to fume and rage (as when he fell
By conqu'ring Angels bound and sent to Hell)
But quickly recollected, down he sate,
And with himself did thus deliberate.

Have I for this my self a Suppliant made
To long-neglected Heav'n, and meanly pray'd
Only for Leave to shew how soon the Pride
And Pow'r of Satan may be mortify'd?
Now I believe (I never did till now,
But thought my self too great for such a Blow)
What long ago in Heav'n, when there among
The fawning Crew I dwelt, and with them bow'd and sung,
In ancient Records I have sometime read,
The Woman's Seed shall bruise the Serpent's Head.
'Tis doubtless but too true; I must submit,
I find I must: But sure I need not yet.
The Woman's Seed! What may this Riddle be?
There lies some Myst'ry in't too deep for me
To sound: But Job, methinks, should not be He.
Job may be conquer'd; yes, he may, and shall:
I'll never leave him, till I see him fall.
Nay let this wond'rous Seed come when he will,
I'll meet him in the Field, and try his Skill:
Mean while I'll practice on his Friend, and grow
Still more expert t'engage the mighty Foe.
On my great Name 'twill leave a lasting Brand,
Not to accomplish what I take in Hand.
But first I'll take Advice: The Cause will need
A full Debate, e'er further we proceed.
Job, thou hast foyl'd me twice; but mark it well,
My third attack thou never shalt repell,
If either Wit or Pow'r remain in Hell.

Thus with a threat'ning Brow. Then takes his flight
Down to the Realms of everlasting Night,
The Palace where he reigns with Horrour crown'd,
And deck'd with dismal Majesty around.
Thither arriv'd the Prince without delay
Summons his trusty Counsellers; and they
No sooner hear the News, but post away.
Fom ev'ry Side the gloomy States-men come,
And at the Day appointed fill the Room.

To whom the Sultan thus, Grave Senators,
Illustrious Peers, and Sage, Nocturnal Pow'rs,
Since down from Heav'n, impatient to endure
Th' unequal Yoke of Arbitrary Pow'r,
We cast our selves, and rather chose to reign
Below, than serve above: With brave Disdain
Inflam'd, so high our just Resentments ran,
Since then our Work has been to ruin Man,
GOD's Darling Man, created to supply
The Seats we left, and fill th' unpeopled Sky.
Nor has Success been wanting: Our high Place
May still be void, for all this upstart Race
Of Earth-born Worms. Our reaching Arts have won
The greater Part. The Rich we have undone
By tempting them to Avarice and Pride,
Oppression, and a thousand Ills beside.
Nor have the Poor escap'd the Stratagem:
Impatience, Envy, Murm'ring ruines them.
Their Souls to Lust the Strong and Heathful yield:
Our Champion Lust has its Ten Thousands kill'd.
With Pains and Sickness others we assail,
And then provoke them to repine and rail,
And curse the Hand of Providence, as if
That were the only Cause of all their Grief.
But Job (Oh hateful Name!) derides our Pain:
On him we practise all our Arts in vain.
The senseless Bigot neither Want nor Wealth
Can move: He's one in Sickness and in Health.
Impov'rish'd, robb'd, his Body cover'd o'er
With noysom Boyls, and many a painful Sore,
His old, religious Mind he still retains,
And meekly worships GOD amidst his Pains.
Still loves Him, and with blister'd Tongue does sing
Blessed be GOD, my Father, and my King,
This can we suffer? No: We never can,
If we be Angels still, and He but Man.
Where are our Souls? Where that brave Ardor sled,
When our bold Troops 'gainst the bright Throne we led,
And charg'd, like valiant Gen'rals, at their Head?
Th' Almighty scarce could rout us then: And now
Shall we before a wretched Mortal bow?
I know you scorn such Meanness.
Then give Advice, how Vict'ry may be gain'd,
And let Hell's Honour, by your Care maintain'd,
Be still, as hitherto, preserv'd unstain'd.

He spoke. They on each other cast their Eyes,
Expecting who should give their Lord Advice
In this Affair; when from amidst the Crowd
Lord Belial rose, and reverently bow'd.

Let not your Wrath, Great Prince, unruly grow
Against this stupid Wretch: We'll make him know
Our strong Temptations cannot be withstood;
And he shall yet blaspheme and curse his GOD.
His stubborn Patience we'll to Rage convert:
Horror and black Despair shall seize his Heart,
And in fierce Anger Heav'n and he shall part.
The Means are obvious, and have often done
Great Feats, and everlasting Honour won.
Have you forgotten, Sir, (I'm sure you ha'n't,
'Twas such a glorious Act, I'm sure you can't)
How the First Man was tempted and undone?
'Twas by his Wife: And Job has such a one.
I know her well: Of Pagan Parents born,
She gladly to our Altars would return,
And in her Heart does Job's Religion scorn.
But, like a proud and impious Tyrant, He
Denies her Consc'ence native Liberty,
His unjust Laws compels her to fulfil,
And makes her serve his GOD against her Will.
Nay, though sometimes she condescends to join,
Upon Occasion, with him in Divine
And sacred Acts, this will not please; but he
Exacts a constant, full Conformity

Her Sex's Dow'r she wants not, Envy, Pride,
Revenge, and Forty glorious Names beside.
Lustful and Covetous, she hates her Lord
Now Poor and Sick, nor able to afford
What would content her, and she longs to be
From such an inconvenient Marr'age free.
A choicer Instrument we cannot find:
For such a Work as this, she seems design'd,
And made, like Eve, to ruin Humankind.
Sir, with your Leave, I'll go, and set her on,
And let her finish what we have begun.
A few Instructions will suffice: For she
Already is almost as wise as We.

He scarce had done, when overcome with Joy,
The Prince of Devils made this quick Reply.

My Blessing on Thee, dear and precious Friend,
And may Success thy Sage Advice attend.
Nor do I doubt it. Oh that I had now
More Friends, as faithful and as wise as Thou!
Our good old Cause might be reviv'd again,
And our lost Empire we might yet obtain.
Oh that the Sov'reign Seat in Heav'n were mine!
Next to my self in Glory thou should'st shine:
Great Michael's Place, dear Belial, should be Thine.

This said, in hast he from the Throne descends,
To kiss the Mouth on which his Hope depends:
Applauding Murmurs through th' Assembly ran,
And Satan, highly pleas'd, dissolv'd the dark Divan.

No sooner was the joyful Court adjourn'd,
But Belial, in whose eager Stomach burn'd
A strong desire, Revenge on Job to take,
Did for his Journey Preparation make.
Through all the doleful Provinces of Hell,
Where guilty Souls in easeless Torments dwell,
Through the wide Gulph of Subterranean Waves,
Thro' those rude Realms, and hollow, sounding Caves,
Where infant Storms with Tenderness are nurs'd,
And Whirlwinds try their mad Vagaries first.
Till stronger grown, the Prison-walls they break,
And thro' the Air their frantick Rambles take:
Through these without delay he swiftly pass'd,
And to those plent'ous Regions came at last,
That with Metallick Stores are always big,
Where Men do Gold and Grief together dig.
Here stays awhile to visit in his way
Lord Mammon, whom those wealthy Realms obey.
He to the late Assembly did not come,
By Bus'ness of Importance kept at home.
At other times the Court he seldom miss'd,
But at Cabals did constantly assist.
On his Advice the State did much rely,
His Int'rest great, and great his Policy.
None serv'd the Prince, or carry'd on his Cause
With greater Zeal than he, or more Applause.
Him Satan lov'd, and highly did prefer,
Made him his Minion, and Lord Treasurer.
In which high Post, so thriving was his Fate,
He bought the Golden Mines, a vast Estate.
And there he reigns a proud and potent Lord;
Scarce Satan's self more honour'd and ador'd.
His Favour Princes seek, and to his Court
Their emulous Ambassadors resort.
A Throng of Suitors at his Gate attends,
And they are happ'est whom he most befriends.
For here bright Gold, that dazling Idol grows
(Lord Mammon's Royalty) which he on those
That serve him best, the worst of Men, bestows.
With equal Art and Pains 'tis here refin'd
By brawny Giants of the Cyclop's kind.
The Prince to each by Lot their Task assigns,
The shining Ore some dig from wealthy Mines.
Some from the Dross the purer Substance purge,
Some labour at the Bellows, some the Forge.
Some form the pond'rous Ingots, others slake
The flaming Wedges in the sooty Lake.
Some beat them out with Hammers, others grace
The charming Pieces with a Monarch's Face.

And as the painful Bees in flow'ry May,
On various Works employ the precious Day.
Some gather waxen Stores, and bring them home
On laden Thighs, with curious Labour some
(Rare Architects) erect the golden Comb.
Some overstock'd lead forth the younger Fry
To seek new Seats, and plant a Colony.
Some put on Arms, and with bold Sallies drive
The Drones (a lazy Nation) from their Hive.
Others with liquid Nectar crowd the Cells;
The Work grows hot, the fragrant Honey smells.
So Mammon's griesly Servants ply the Mint,
While he stands by, and holds them to their Stint.

A short Repast here Belial did receive,
Then thank'd his gen'rous Host, and took his Leave.
To whom old Mammon briefly thus reply'd,
Farewel, and may good Fortune be your Guide!
The Work already done, methinks, I view:
For what's design'd by one so wise as you
Can hardly fail. Success must needs attend
Whate'er you manage. Go, my noble Friend,
And ruin the proud Slave, that dares rebel
Against our Lord, the mighty Prince of Hell.
Rather than he should 'scape deserved Fate,
Let me be banish'd from this vast Estate,
And all these wealthy Regions see no more,
But live (oh hateful Life!) Honest, and Poor.

Thence parting Belial took the nearest Way,
And soon attain'd the lightsome Realms of Day,
To Idumea straight unseen he went,
Near to the Place where Job had pitch'd his Tent.
Of thicken'd Air there forms a neat Disguise,
Apt to deceive th' unwary Matron's Eyes)
By wise, Angelick Art: For though they fell
From Grace, their nat'ral Pow'rs they keep in Hell,
And still in crafty, juggling Feats excel.
The Form of Job's Wife's Mother, lately dead,
He takes, and spreads with Snow his shaking Head.
He counterfeits her Stature, Shape, and Meen,
And in his Face were all her Features seen.
Her hollow Cheeks, sunk Eyes, and Toothless Mouth,
He so bely'd, they well might pass for Truth.

It was the time when Luna's milder Light
Made Night more cool than Day, but scarce less bright,
When, thus disguis'd, the Fiend does softly come,
With short and trembling Steps, into the Room,
Where lay the Dame in Sleeps soft Fetters ty'd,
To whom th' Impostor thus himself apply'd,

Dear Daughter, while kind Fate my Life did spare,
To make you Rich and Happy was my Care:
Still in the Grave the same Desire remains,
Death cannot break Love's Adamantine Chains.
When you to Job in nuptial Bands were ty'd,
You seem'd so fortunate, so blest a Bride,
That all that lov'd you did congratulate,
And others envy'd your thrice happy Fate.
So Wise, so Rich, so Comely he was then;
He seem'd the choicest of the Sons of Men.
Only our Country GODS he would not own,
But serv'd a Deity to us unknown:
Hence all His Griefs and Yours.
For they, incens'd to find themselves contemn'd
By one they favour'd so, in Wrath condemn'd
The Wretch to lose what they had giv'n before,
Smote him with Boyls, and justly made him Poor.
Nor can the GOD he serves his Friend protect:
Or, if He can, why does He him neglect?
Well: Let him suffer. He deserves his Fate,
And on himself has brought the GOD's just Hate.
But why should you a Partner with him be
In Punishment, who from his Guilt are free?
Go, and provoke him to blaspheme his GOD,
Who cannot save him from the angry Rod
Of our more just and potent Deities:
If he repent, he may perhaps appease
Their mighty Wrath, and thro' their Grace obtain
His former Health and Happiness again.
Or else his GOD, who possibly may have
Pow'r to destroy Mens Lives, tho' not to save,
For his Apostacy may strike him dead,
And then of all your Griefs at once you're rid.
For in his Room the GODS will soon provide
A second Husband worthy such a Bride,
Rich, Noble, Young. For in the Fatal Book
I lately had the Priviledge to look,
And read your glorious Fortunes: Only He
Stands, like a Cloud, betwixt thy Heav'n and Thee.
He gone, good Fortune shall his Place possess,
And bring with her Prosperity and Peace.
In Wealth and Honour, like a mighty Queen,
Thou long shalt Reign, and when this happy Scene
Is past, descend well-pleas'd, and in the sweet
Elysian Groves thy joyful Mother meet.

He spoke, and vanish'd. Straight the Matron's Breast
A Fury wild and blasphemous possest:
Impiety engross'd her Soul, and all
The weak Remains of Grace and Virtue fall.

Mean while the Gates of Heav'n were open'd wide,
And forth the Sun in glorious Pomp did ride,
Fine as a Bridegroom, when the Day is come
To lead the beauteous Nymph, a conq'ring Captive, home.
Swift as a Giant, eager to debate
With flying Feet his Title to the Plate.
Up gets the Dame (the Fury in her Breast
Would suffer her to take no longer Rest)
To Job's Apartment all in hast she flies,
Where the good Man opprest with Sorrow lies.
In pious Pray'rs he had spent the tedious Night,
And Faith and Patience, made his Burden light.
Just as her Feet upon the Threshold trod,
She heard him sigh, and cry, Have Mercy, O my GOD!
Then in she bolts: Her furious Bosom full
Of Belial, round her Eyes distracted roll,
And thus at last she vents her angry Soul.

What! Mercy still! No wonder, since you find
The GOD you serve so gracious, and so kind.
If Want and Sickness may be call'd Rewards,
Plenty of these t'his Servants he affords.
O happy Man! Go on, and dying bless
Your Noble Patron: He deserves no less.
What Sot, but you, would court his mortal Foe?
Our better GODS would scorn to serve you so.
Grow wise at last, unchain your Servile Tongue,
And tell him you resent th' ingrateful Wrong,
Were I thus rack'd with dire, excessive Pain,
This Passive Meanness how would I disdain!
I would not sneak beneath th' unequal Load,
Nor feebly cry, “Have Mercy, O my GOD!
But with bold Curses I would satisfy
My just Revenge, and then with Pleasure die.
I would not wait his Leisure thus, nor be
Compell'd by Him to live in Misery?
His ling'ring Tortures I would soon prevent,
And end my hateful Days in manly Discontent.

She spoke. Her Words good Job amaz'd did hear,
Words unaccustom'd to his pious Ear.
As one that happens unawares to set
Upon a Snake unseen his naked Feet,
Steps back, all pale to see him raise his long
And speckled Neck, and dart his forked Tongue:
So was the Saint surpriz'd; so started he
To hear her bold and impious Blasphemy.
But, recollected soon, his careful Eye
Upon the Dame he fixt, and made this mild Reply:

Better't had been to be for ever dumb,
Than that such Language from thy Lips should come.
Ah! foolish Woman, void of Grace and Sense!
Has Satan seiz'd thy Soul, and banish'd thence
All that is wise and virtuous? May not GOD,
When we offend, use his chastising Rod?
Shall we confine th' Almighty to our Will,
Still to be doing Good, tho' we do Ill?
And must he only what we chuse bestow,
As if what's fit, not GOD, but we did know?
Shall we the Joys, we merit not, receive,
Yet curse, if Heav'n deserved Sorrows give?
'Tis Partial, this: And argues that our Breast
Is by th' Ignoble Principle possest
Of Pride, Self-love, and sordid Interest.
From GOD come Good and Evil; Both design'd
By different Methods to improve Mankind:
And Both we ought to take with a contented Mind.

Such was his Speech. So gently he reprov'd
The direful Rage of her he dearly lov'd.
Such awful Majesty and Light Divine
Did in his patient Looks, and Answer shine,
That Belial's Agent found no more to say,
But blush'd, stood still awhile, then silent slipt away.