Iob Militant: Meditation 11

THe Morall Poets, (nor unaptly) faine,
That by lame Vulcans help, the pregnant brain
Of soveraigne ove, brought forth, and at that birth,
Was borne Minerva, Lady of the earth.
O strange Divinity! but sung by rote;
Sweete is the tune, but in a wider note.
The Morall sayes, All Wisedome that is given
To hood-wink't mortals, first proceeds from heavē
Truth's errour, Wisedom's but wise insolence,
And light's but darknesse, not deriv'd from thence;
Wisedom's a straine, transcends Morality,
No Vertu's absent, Wisedome being by.
Vertue, by constant practice, is acquir'd,
This (this by sweat unpurchas't) is inspir'd:
The master-piece of knowledge, is to know
But what is good, from what is good in show,
And there it rests: Wisedome proceeds, and chuses
The seeming evill, th' apparent good refuses;
Knowledge descries alone; Wisedome applies,
That makes some fooles; this, maketh none but wise:
The curious hand of knowledge doth but picke
are simples, wisdome pounds them, for the sicke;
In my afflictions knowledge apprehends,
Who is the Author, what the Cause, and Ends,
It findes that Patience is my sad reliefe,
And that the hand that caus'd, can cure my griefe:
To rest contented here, is but to bring
Cloudes without raine, and heat without a Spring:
What hope arises hence? The Devils doe
The very same: They know, and tremble too;
But sacred Wisdome doth apply that good,
Which simple knowledge barely understood:
Wisedome concludes, and in conclusion, proves,
That wheresoever God corrects, he loves:
Wisedome digests, what knowledge did but tast,
That deales in futures; this, in things are past:
Wisdome's the Card of knowledge, which, without
That Guide, at random's wreck't on every doubt:
Knowledge, when wisdome is too weak to guide her
Is like a head-strong horse, that throwes the rider:
Which made that great Philosopher avow,
He knew so much, that he did nothing know.
Lord, give me Wisedome to direct my wayes,
I beg nor riches, nor yet length of dayes:
O grant thy servant Wisedome, and with it,
I shall receive such knowledge as will fit
To serve my turne: I wish not Phoebus waine,
Without his skill to drive it, lest I gaine
Too deare an Honour: Lord, I will not stay,
To picke more Manna, then will serve to day.