Book II, 46: On Jobs Temptations

God questions Sathan: Boasts his Iobs desert,
In the perfection of a Simple Heart:
Iobs Faith was servent; Sathan was as chill
To yeeld it; but must yeeld against his will;
Condemnes it to be Servile, to be bought
With Gods own coyn? Does Iob erve God for nought?
It is a common trick, the Tempter uses,
The Faith he cannot conquer, he abuses.
Alas, that Faith requires not so much praise,
'Tis a good Faith, as Faiths goe now a dayes:
Is it not strengthen'd by thy indulgent hand,
That blest his Labours, and inricht his Land?
Puffe out the Fire: his Faith will quickly chill:
Sathan puffe thou; nay Sathan puffe thy will:
Nor Ebbe nor Floud of small, or great estate,
Are certaine Badges of Gods love or Hate:
What's now to doe? Poore Iob must be bereaven
Of all his stronger Herds; Fire, sent from Heaven,
Must burne his fruitfull Flocks, that none remaine;
His houses fall; and all his Children slaine;
And yet not rse? Alas, poore Iob adresses
His thoughts to heav'n; he worships God & blesses
The lively Faith that can retaine her God,
May groane; but seldome rav beneath the Rod.
But what sayes Sathan now? The hedge is broke,
That fenc'd my Servant Iob: What further Cloke
For his uprightnesse hath he? what pretence
For his continued Love and Innocence?
Has not thy malice had her owne desire?
'Twas soundly puff'd; thy Puffs have blown the ire:
Gods Tryals are like Bellows: Sathan's Blower,
Blowes out false Faiths, makes true ones blaze the more.
True Lord; His Raith is tough: But Snailes as well
Can thrive without, as live within their Shell:
To save a life who would not lose some skin?
Touch but his Hornes; O how hee'l draw them in
Sathan I give thy malice leave, be free
To peele the Barke, but spare to touch the Tree.
Feare not ye little flocke: The greatest ill
Your Foes can doe's to scratch; They cannot kill.
What now's th'exployt? Afflicted Iob does lye,
A very Hospitall of misery:
I thinke, that all the Vlcers that have bin
In Egypt cu'd, are broken out agin
In his distempered Flesh; yet Iob is still
The very same, nor charg'd his God with ill:
A Faith that lodges in a double Brest,
May stand the touch; None but true Faiths the Test:
If these be Flames poore man must swelter in,
He needs a World a patience, not to sin.