Job, Chapter 6

To thy Disease; and on the cure relye.
Then Iob, Oh were my sufferings duly waigh'd;
Were they together in one Balance laid:
The Sands whereon the rowling Billowes roare,
Were lesse in waight, and not in number more.
My words are swallowed in these Deaths of woes;
While Stormes of sighes my silent griefe disclose.
Gods Arrowes on my breast descend in showers:
There stick, and poyson all my vitall powers.
'Tis he, who armes against a Mortall beares;
Subdues my strength, and chils my heart with feares.
Doe hungry Asses in fresh pastures bray?
Or Oxen low before full cribs of hay?
Oh can unseas'ned cates the guest invite?
What taste is in an Eggs unsavory white?
My lothing soule abhors your bitter food;
Which sorrow feeds, and turnes my teares to blood.
Oh that the Lord would favour my request;
And send my Soule to her eternall rest!
Deliver from this Dungeon, which restraines
Her liberty, and breake Afflictions chaines!
Then should my Torments finde a sure reliefe:
And I become insensible of griefe.
Oh, by not sparing, cure his wounds; who hath
Divulg'd thy truth, and still preserv'd his faith!
What strength have I to hope? or to what end
Should I on such a wasted Life depend?
Was I by rocks ingendred? ribd with steele?
Such tortures to resist, or not to feele?
No hope, no comfort, but in Death is left;
Thus torne with wounds, of all my Joyes bereft.
True Friends, who feare their Maker, should impart
Soft pittie to a sad and broken Heart:
But Oh, the great in vowes, and neare in Blood,
Forsake me like the torrent of a Flood:
Which in the winding vallies glides away;
And scarce maintaines the Current of a Day:
Or stands in solid Ice, conceal'd with Snow;
But when the lowdly-storming South winds blow,
And mounted Sun invades it with his beames,
Dissolves; and scatters his exhausted Streames.
Who from the parched fields of Thema came,
From Shaeba scorched with etheriall Flame.
In expectation to asswage their thirst:
Deluded, blusht; and his dry channels curst.
So you now cease to be what once you were:
And view my downfall with the eyes of Feare,
Have I requir'd your bounty to repaire
My ruin'd fortunes? was it in my praier
That you for me the Mighty would oppose?
And in a just revenge pursue my foes?
If I have err'd instruct me; tell wherein:
My tongue shall never justifie a Sin.
Although a due reproofe informe the Sense:
Detraction is the Gall of Impudence.
Why adde you sorrow to a troubled mind?
Passion must speake: her words are but as wind.
Against an Orphan you your forces bend:
And banquet with the afflictions of a friend.
Accuse not now, but judge: you from my youth
Have knowne and try'de me, speake I more then truth?
Vnveile your Eyes, and then I shall appeare
The same I am; from all aspersions cleare.
Have I my heart disguised with my tongue?
Could not my tast distinguish right from wrong?
The life of Man is a perpetuall warre: