Job, Chapter 7

In Miserie and Sorrow Circular.
He a poore mercenary serves for bread:
For all his travell, only cloth'd and fed.
The Hireling longs to see the Shades ascend;
That with the tedious Day his toyle might end,
And he his pay receive: but, ah! in vaine
I Monthes consume; yet never rest obtaine.
The Night charmes not my Cares with sleeplesse eyes
My Tornients cry: When will the Morning rise!
Why runs the Charriot of the Night so slow?
The Day-Star finds me tossing to and fro.
Wormes gnaw my flesh; with filth my ulcers run:
My skin like clods of Earth, chapt with the Sunne.
Like shuttles through the loome, so swiftly glide
My feathered Howers; and all my hopes deride!
Remember, Lord, my life is but a wind;
Which passeth by, and leaves no print behind.
Then never shall my Eyes their lids unfold;
Nor mortall sight my vanisht face behold,
Not thou, to whom our thoughts apparant bee,
Should'st thou desire, could'st him, that is not, see.
As clouds resolve to aire, so never more.
Shall gloomy Graves their Dead to Light restore:
Nor shall they to their sumptuous Roofes returne;
But lye forgotten, as if never borne.
Then, O my Soule, while thou hast freedome, breake
Into Complaints: give Sorrow leave to speake.
Am I a raging Sea, or furious Whale?
That thou should'st thus confine me with a wall?
How often when the rising Stars had spread
Their golden Flames, said I! now shall my Bed
Refresh my weary limbs; and peacefull Sleepe.
My care and anguish in his Lethe steepe.
But lo! sad Dreames my troubled Braines surprise:
And gastly Visions wound my staring Eyes.
So that my yeilding Soule, subdude with greife,
And tortur'd Body, to their last reliefe
Would gladly flye: and by a violence.
Lesse painefull, take from greater paine the Sense.
For life is but my curse: resume the breath
I must restore, and fold me up in Death.
O what is man, to whom thou should'st impart
So great an Honour as to search his Hart!
To watch his Steps, observe him with thine eye;
And daily with renew'd afflictions try!
Still must I suffer? wilt thou never leave?
Nor give a little time for griefe to breath?
My Soule hath sinn'd: how can I expiate
Her guilt great Guardian, or prevent thy hate?
Why aim'st thou all thy darts at me alone?
Who to my selfe am know a Burthen growne.
Wilt thou not to a broken Heart dispense
Thy Balme of mercy, and expunge th'offence,
E're dust returne to dust? Then thou no more
Shalt see my Face; nor I thy Name adore.