Job, Chapter 15

Iob paus'd: to whom the Themanite replies:
Can man such follies utter and be wise?
Which bluster from the Tempest of thy mind,
As if thy breast inclos'd the Easterne wind.
Wilt thou thy idle rage by Reason prove?
Or speake those Thoughts which have no power to move?
Thou from thy rebell Heart hast God exil'd;
Kept backe thy Prayers his sacred Truth revil'd.
Thy Lips declare thy owne impiety;
Accuse of fraud, condemne thee; and not I.
Art thou the first of Mortals? wert thou made
Before the Hils their lofty Browes display'd?
Hath God to thee his Oracles resign'd?
Is wisedome only to thy Breast confin'd?
What know'st thou that we know not? as compleat
In Natures graces; in acquir'd, as great.
There are gray heads among us: Counsellers,
To whom thy Father was a Boy in Yeares.
Slight thou the Comforts we from God impart?
What greater Secret lurkes in thy proud heart,
That hurries thee into these extasies?
What fury flames in thy disdainfull Eyes?
Wilt thou a warre against thy Maker wage?
And wound him with thy tongues blasphemous rage?
Was ever humane flesh from blemish cleare?
Can they be guiltlesse whom fraile women beare?
He trusteth not his Ministers of Light:
The radiant Stars shine dimnly in his Sight.
How perfect then is man? from head to foot
Defil'd with filth, and rotten at the root.
Who poys'ning sinne with burning thirst devours:
As parched Earth sucks in the falling showers.
What I have heard and seene (would'st thou intend
Thy cure) I would unto thy care commend;
Which oft the wise have in my thoughts reviv'd:
To them from knowing Ancestors deriv'd;
Who God-like over happy Nations reign'd,
And Vertue by suppressing Vice sustein'd.
Th'Unjust his Dayes in painefull travell spends:
The Cruell sodainly to Death descends.
He starts at every sound that strikes his Eare:
And punishment anticipates by feare.
Who from the heigth of all his Glory shall,
Like newly-kindled Exhalations, fall:
Despaires cold breath his springing hopes confounds:
Who feeles th'expected sword before it wounds.
He begs his bread from doore to doore, and knowes
The Night drawes on that must his Day inclose.
Horror and anguish shall his soule affright;
Daunt like a King that drawes his Troops to fight.
Since he against the Almighty stretcht his hand,
And like a rebell spurn'd at his Command;
God shall upon his seven-fold target rush,
And his stiffe necke beneath his shoulders crush.
Though Luxury swell in his shining eyes,
And his fat belly load his yeilding thighes:
Though he dismantled Cities fortifie,
From their deserted ruines rais'd on high:
Yet his congested wealth shall melt like snow;
Whose growth shall never to perfection grow.
Destruction shall surround him: nor shall he
His Soule from that darke night of Horror free:
God with his breath shall all his Branches blast:
And scorch with lightning by his vengeance cast.
Will the deluded trust to vanitie?
And by the stroake of his owne folly die?
For he shall be cut downe before his time:
His spreading Branches wither in their prime.
Lo, as a storme which with the Sunne ascends,
From creeping vines their unripe clusters rends;
And the fat olive, ever greene with Leaves,
Together of her hopes and flowers bereaves:
So shall the great Revenger ruinate
Him and his Issue, by a dreadfull fate.
Those fooles who fraud with pietie disguise,
And by corrupting Bribes to Greatnesse rise;
Their Glories shall in desolation mourne:
While hungry flames their lofty structures burne.
With Mischiefe they conceive; their bellies great
With swelling Vanitie, bring forth Deceit.