Job, Chapter 27

They silenc't, Iob proceeds in his Defence:
As the Lord Lives, who knowes my Innocence;
Yet will not judge: but hath my Soule depriv'd
Of all her Joyes; to Misery long-liv'd:
While these my vitall Spirits shall receive
The food of Aire, and through my Nostrils breath:
No falsehood shall defile my Lips with Lies:
Or with a vaile the face of Truth disguise.
Nor will I wound my cleare Integritie,
By yeilding to your wrongs, but rather die.
Shall I my selfe betray, my Strength refuse,
Desert my Justice, and my truth accuse?
First may I sinke by Torments yet unknowne:
That those which now I suffer may seeme none.
Let such as hate me in their Sinnes rejoyce;
And surfeit with the pleasant Baites of Vice:
What hope hath the prevailing Hypocrite,
When God shall chase his Soule to endlesse Night?
Will God relieve him in his Agonies?
Or from the Depth of Sorrow heare his Cries?
Will he in God delight, his aide implore
Incessantly, and his great Name adore?
Oh be instructed by these Characters
Of his impression, which my Body beares!
I his more secret Judgements will disclose:
Which you have seene, yet desperately oppose.
This is the Portion which the wicked hath;
He shall inherit the Almighties wrath:
The lawlesse Sword his Childrens blood shall shed;
Increast for slaughter; borne to begge their bread.
Death shall the Remnant in his Dungeon keepe:
No Widow at his funerall shall weepe.
Although he gather Gold like heaps of Dust,
The fuell of his Luxury and Lust:
His Cabinets with change of Garments fraught
By silke-wormes spun, and Phrygian Needles wrought:
Yet for the Just reserv'd; who shall divide
His Treasure, and divest him of his pride.
Though he his House of polisht Marble build;
With Jasper floor'd, and carved Cedar seil'd:
Yet shall it ruine like the Moth's fraile cell;
Or sheds of Reedes, which Summers heat repell.
He shall lye downe, neglected, as unknowne:
And when he wakes, see nothing of his owne.
Terrors, like swallowing Deluges, shall fright:
Swept from his Bed by Tempests in the Night:
Like scatter'd Downe by howling Eurus blowne;
By rapid Hurl-winds from his Mansion throwne.
God shall transfix him with his winged Dart:
Though he avoyd him like the flying Hart:
Men shall pursue with merited disgrace;
Hiss, clap their hands, and from his Country chase.