Iob Militant: Section 6

Orewhelm'd with griefe, Iob breaketh forth
Into impatience: Bans his birth,
Professes, that his heart did doubt
And feare, what since hath fallen out.

WOrn bare with griefe, the patient Iob betrai'd
His seven-daies silence, curst his day, & said:
O that my Day of birth had never bin,
N yet the Night, which I was brought forth in!
Be it not numbred for a Day, let Light
Not make a difference 'twixt it and Night;
Let gloomy Shades (then Death more sable) passe
Vpon it, to declare how fatall 'twas:
Let Clouds ore-cast it, and as hatefull make it,
As lifes to him, whom Tortures bid, forsake it:
From her next day, let that blacke Night be cut,
Nor in the reckning of the Months, be put:
Let Desolation fill it, all night long,
In it, be never heard a Bridall song:
Let all sad Mourners that doe curse the light,
When light's drawne in begin to curse this night?
Her evening Twilight, let foule darknesse staine;
And may her midnight expect light in vaine;
Nor let her infan Day (but newly borne)
Suffer't to see the Eye-lids of the morne,
Because my Mothers Wombe it would not clze,
Which gave me passage to endure these Woes:
Why dyed I not in my Conception, rather?
Or why was not my Birth, and death together?
Why did the Midwife take me on her knees?
Why did I sucke, to feele such griefes as these?
Then had this body never beene opprest,
I had injoy'd th'eternall sleepe of rest;
With Kings, and mighty Monarchs, that lie crown'd
With stately Monuments, poore I had found
A place of Rest, had borne as great a sway,
Had beene as happy, and as rich as they:
Why was not I as an abortive birth,
The e're had knowne the horrors of the earth?
The silent Grave is quiet from the feare
Of Tyrants: Tyrants are appeased there:
The grinded Prisner heares not (there) the noyse,
Nor harder threatnings of th'Oppressors voyce:
oth rich and poore are equal'd in the Grave,
Servants no Lords, and Lords no Servants have:
What needs there light to him thats comfortlesse?
Or life to such as languish in distresse,
long for death, which, if it come by leysure,
They ransack for it, as a hidden treasure?
What needs there Life to him, that cannot have
A Bne, more gracious, then a quiet Grave?
Or else to him, whom God hath wall'd about,
That would, but cannot finde a passage out?
When I but taste, my sighes returne my food,
The flowing of my teares have rais'd a flood;
When my estate was prosperous, I did feare,
Let, by some heedlesse slip, or want of care,
I might be brought to Misery, and (alas!)
What I did then so feare is come to passe:
But though secure, my soule did never slumber,
Yet doe my Woes exceed both Waight, and Number.