Job, Chapter 39

Wilt thou for the old Lyon hunt? or fill
His hungry whelps? and for the killer kill?
When couch'd in dreadfull Dens; when closely they
Lurke in the Covert to surprise their prey?
Who feeds the Ravens when their young-ones cry.
To God for food and through the Deserts flye?
Know'st thou when Salvage goates doe teeme among
The craggy rocks? when Hinds produce their young?
Can'st thou their Recknings keepe? the time compute
When their swolne Bellies shall inlarge their fruit?
Without a Midwife these their Throwes sustaine;
And bowing, bring their Issue forth with paine.
They at full udders sucke, grow strong with corne:
Depart, and never to their Dams returne.
Who sent forth the wild Asse to live at large?
Whom neither Haltar binds nor Burthens charge:
Inhabiting the barren Wildernesse,
And rocky Caves, remov'd from mans accesse.
He from the many-peopl'd Citie flyes;
Contemnes their labors, and the Drivers cryes:
The Mountaines are his walkes; who wandring feeds
On slowly-springing hearbs, and ranker weeds.
Will the fierce Vnicorne thy voyce obey,
Stand at the Crib, and feed upon the hay?
Or to the servile yoake his freedome yeild;
Plough-up the Glebe, and harrow the rough field?
Wilt thou upon his ready strength relye?
Will he sustaine thee with his Industry?
Bring home thy Harvest? to thy will submit?
Put of his fiercenesse, and receive the Bit?
The Peacock, not at thy Command, assumes
His glorious traine: Nor Estrige her rare plumes.
She drops her Egges upon the naked Land;
And wraps them in a bed of hatching Sand:
Exposed to the wandering Traveller;
And Feet of Beasts, which those wild Deserts reare.
Shee as a Step-mother betrayes her owne;
Left without care, and presently unknowne:
By God depriv'd of that Intelligence
Which Nature gives: of all most voide of Sense.
Her feet the nimble Rider leave behind;
And when shee spreads her sayles, out-strip the wind.
Hast thou with Strength indu'd the generous Horse?
His necke with Thunder arm'd, his breast with Force?
Him canst thou as a Grashopper affright?
Who from his Nostrils throwes a dreadfull light;
Exults in his owne courage; proudly bounds;
With trampling hoofes the sounding Centre wounds:
Breakes through the ordred Rancks with eyes that burne;
Nor from the Battle-Axe, or Sword, will turne.
The ratling Quiver, nor the glittering Speare,
Or dazling Shield, can daunt his heart with feare.
Through rage and fiercenesse he devoures the ground:
Nor in his fury heares the Trumpet sound.
Farre of the Battaile smels; like Thunder neighes:
Loud shouts and dying groanes his courage raise.
Do's the wild Haggard towre into the skie,
And to the South by thy direction flye?
Or Eagle in her gyres the Clouds imbrace,
And on the highest cliffe her Aëry place?
Shee dwels among the Rocks; on every side
With broken Mountaines strongly fortifi'd:
From thence what ever can be seene survayes;
And stooping, on the slanghtred Quarry preys:
From wounds her Eglets suck the reaking blood;
And all-devasting Warre provides her food.
Since such my power, wilt thou with me contend?
Instruct thy Maker? and thy fault defend?
Now answer thou that darst thy God up-braid.
Then humbled Iob, transfixt with sorrow, said:
Can one so vile to such a truth reply?
Too long my griefe hath rav'd: no more will I
Pursue a folly, and my Sinne extend:
But curbe my tongue, so ready to offend.
Once more Jehova from that radiant Throne