Job, Chapter 21

The Huzite sigh'd, and said: my words attend
Afford this only comfort to your friend.
Suffer my tongue to speake my thoughts: and then
Renew your scoffes: doe I complaine to Men?
Since God such dreadfull Armes against me beares:
Oh why should I suppresse my sighes and teares!
My sufferings with astonishment survay:
And on your silent lips your fingers lay.
For should my Enemy endure the like;
The Story would my Soule with horror strike.
Why live the wicked? they by vices thrive;
Saile on smooth Seas, and at their port arrive:
Confirme a long succession; and behold
Their numerous off-spring: in excesse grow old.
Their Houses on secure foundations stand:
Nor are they humbled by the Almighties hand.
Their lusty Bulls serve not their Kine in vaine:
Their Calves the Breeders their full time retaine.
Abroad like flocks their little ones they send:
Their Children dance, in active Sports contend;
Strike the melodious Harpe, shrill Timbrels ring:
And to the warbling Lute soft Ditties sing.
Life is to them a long-continued Feast:
And sleepe is not more calme then Deaths arrest.
To God they say; Enjoy thy Heaven alone:
Be thou to us, as we to thee, unknowne.
For what is he, that we should him obey?
Or fruitlesse vowes before his Altar pay?
Yet their Felicitie from him proceeds:
Nor am I culpable of their misdeeds.
When are their tapers quencht? doe they expire,
Struck by the Thunderer, with Darts of fire?
How oft are they like chaffe by whirl-winds tost?
Or early Blossomes bitten by the Frost?
When are their Vices punish't in their seed?
When for their owne offences doe they bleed?
How often tread destructions horrid Path?
And drinke the dregs of the Revengers wrath?
Care they for their deserted Families;
When Deaths all-curing hand shall close their eyes?
Shall Man his Maker teach, who sits on high;
And swayes the worlds inferior Monarchy?
Two Men at once behold: the one possest
Of his desires, with peace and plenty blest:
From whose swolne breast a streame of milke distils;
Whose bones high feeding with hot marrow fils:
The other, miserable from his birth:
A burthen to himselfe, and to the Earth.
Who never could his Hungers rage suffice.
That in perfection; This in Sorrow dies.
Yet Death, more equall; these extreames conformes;
And covers their corrupting flesh with wormes.
I know your Councels; can your thoughts detect:
The forged Crimes you purpose to object.
Where are, say you, those Palaces that blas'd
With burnisht Gold, on carved Columns rais'd?
Built on the Ruines of the poore; the soile
By extortion purchas'd; and adorn'd with spoile?
Be judg'd by travellers: they will confute
What falsely you suggest, and strike you mute.
For these, and those, who high in Vice command,
Against the Thunders rage securely stand:
And flourish in the Day of wrath, when all
About them by the stroake of Slaughter fall.
Who dare against the great in Mischiefe plead?
Or turne his Injuries upon his head?
They shall his Corps with funerall Pompe interre:
And lodge him in a sumptuous Sepulchre.
The Flowers which in the cirkling valley grow,
Shall on his Monument their odors throw.
All that survive shall follow him; and tread
That common path, b'innumerable led.
Why vainely then pretend you my reliefe?
And with false comforts aggravate my griefe?