Job, Chapter 17

My spirits are infected, and my Tombe
Yawnes to devoure mee; my last Dayes are come.
Yet you with bitter scorne my pangs increase:
Nor, ah! will suffer me to die in peace.
What Advocate will take your cause in hand;
And for you at the high Tribunall stand?
Since God your erring soules deprives of sense;
Nor will exalt you in your owne defence.
His Children shall their dayes in sorrow end,
Whose tongue with flattery deludes his Friend.
I to the vulgar am become a Jest:
Esteemed as a Minstrell at a Feast.
My sleeplesse eyes their splendor quench in teares:
My tortur'd body to a shadow weares.
This, in the Righteous wonder shall excite:
The Innocent shall hate the Hypocrite.
He in the path prescrib'd shall boldly goe:
And his untainted strength shall stronger grow.
Revoke your wandring Censures, nor despise
The wretched: you who seeme, but are not wise.
My flying houres arrive at their last date:
My thoughts and fortunes buryed in my fate.
How soone my shortned Day is chang'd to Night!
Abortive Darknesse veiles my setting Light.
Oh can your counsell his despaire deferre,
Who now is housed in his Sepulchre?
I, in the shades of death my Bed have made.
Corruption thou my Father art, I said,
And thou, O Worme, my Mother: by thy Birth
My Sister; borne, and nourished by Earth.
Where now are all my hopes? oh never more
Shall they revive! nor Death her rapes restore!
But to the graves infernall prison must
With me descend, and rot in shrouds of Dust.