Diuine poems containing the history of [brace] Ionah, Ester, Iob, Sampson : Sions [brace] sonets, elegies / written and newly augmented by Fra. Quarles.

THE ARGVMENT.

Orewhelm'd with griefe, Iob breaketh forth Into impatience: Bans his birth, Professes, that his heart did doubt And feare, what since hath fallen out.

Sect. 6.

WOrn bare with griefe, the patient Iob betrai'd His seven-daies silence, curst his day, & said: O that my Day of birth had never bin, N•••• yet the Night, which I was brought forth in! Be it not numbred for a Day, let Light Not make a difference 'twixt it and Night; Let gloomy Shades (then Death more sable) passe Vpon it, to declare how fatall 'twas:

Let Clouds ore-cast it, and as hatefull make it, As lifes to him, whom Tortures bid, forsake it: From her next day, let that blacke Night be cut, Nor in the reckning of the Months, be put: Let Desolation fill it, all night long, In it, be never heard a Bridall song: Let all sad Mourners that doe curse the light, When light's drawne in begin to curse this night? Her evening Twilight, let foule darknesse staine; And may her midnight expect light in vaine; Nor let her infan•• Day (but newly borne) Suffer't to see the Eye-lids of the morne, Because my Mothers Wombe it would not cl••ze, Which gave me passage to endure these Woes: Why dyed I not in my Conception, rather? Or why was not my Birth, and death together? Why did the Midwife take me on her knees? Why did I sucke, to feele such griefes as these? Then had this body never beene opprest, I had injoy'd th'eternall sleepe of rest; With Kings, and mighty Monarchs, that lie crown'd With stately Monuments, poore I had found A place of Rest, had borne as great a sway, Had beene as happy, and as rich as they: Why was not I as an abortive birth, The ••e're had knowne the horrors of the earth? The silent Grave is quiet from the feare Of Tyrants: Tyrants are appeased there: The grinded Prisner heares not (there) the noyse, Nor harder threatnings of th'Oppressors voyce: ••oth rich and poore are equal'd in the Grave, Servants no Lords, and Lords no Servants have: What needs there light to him thats comfortlesse? Or life to such as languish in distresse,

〈◊〉〈◊〉 long for death, which, if it come by leysure, They ransack for it, as a hidden treasure? What needs there Life to him, that cannot have A B••••ne, more gracious, then a quiet Grave? Or else to him, whom God hath wall'd about, That would, but cannot finde a passage out? When I but taste, my sighes returne my food, The flowing of my teares have rais'd a flood; When my estate was prosperous, I did feare, Le••t, by some heedlesse slip, or want of care, I might be brought to Misery, and (alas!) What I did then so feare is come to passe: But though secure, my soule did never slumber, Yet doe my Woes exceed both Waight, and Number.

Meditat. 6.

SO poore a thing is Man. No Flesh and blood Deserves the stile of Absolutely Good: The righteous man sins oft; whose power's such, To sin the least, sins (at the least) too much: The man, whose Faith disdain'd his Isaacks life, Dissembled once, a Sister, for a Wife: The righteous Lot, being drunk, did make (at once) His Daughters both halfe sisters to their sonnes: The royall Favorite of heaven, stood Not guiltlesse of Adultery and Blood, And he, whose hands did build the Temple, doth Bow downe his lustfull knees to Ashtaroth The sinfull Woman was accus'd, but none Was found, that could begin to fling a stone:

From mudled Springs, can Christall water come? In some things, all men sin; in all things, some. Even as the soyle, (which Aprils gentle showers Have fild with sweetnesse, and inricht with flowers) Reares up her suckling plants, still shooting forth The tender blossomes of her timely Birth, But, if deny'd the beames of cheerly May, They hang their withered heads, and fade away: So man, assisted by th' Almighties Hand, His Faith doth flourish, and securely stand, But left a while, forsooke (as in a shade) It ••••nguishes, and nipt with sin doth fade: No Gold is pure from Drosse, though oft refin'd; The strongest Cedar's shaken with the wind; The fairest Rose hath no prerogative, Against the fretting Canker-worme, The Hive No honey yeeld•• unblended with the wax, The finest Linnen hath both soyle and bracks: The best of men have sins; None lives secure, In Nature nothing's perfect, nothing pure. Lord, since I needs must sin, yet grant that I Forge no advantage by infirmity: Since that my Vesture cannot want a staine, Assist me, lest the tincture be in Graine. To thee (my great Redeemer) doe I flye, It is thy Death alone, can change my Dye; Teares, mingled with the Blood, can scower so, That Scarlet sinnes shall turne as white as Snow.