Iob militant with meditations diuine and morall. By Fra. Quarles.

THE ARGVMENT.

The frighted Messengers tell Iob His foure-fold losse: He rends his Robe, Submits him to his Makers trust, Whom he concludeth to be lust.

Sect. 3.

VPon that very day, when all the rest Were frollike at their elder Brothers feast, * 1.1 A breathless mā, prickt on with winged feare, With staring eyes, distracted here and there, * 1.2 (Like kindled Exhalations in the aire At midnight glowing) his stiffe-bolting haire, Not much vnlike the pennes of Porcupines) Crossing his armes, and making wofull signes, Purboyld in sweat, shaking his fearefull head, That often lookt behind him, as hee fled, He ran to Iob, still ne'rethelesse afraid, His broken blast breath'd forth these words, and said,

Alas (deare Lord the whiles thy seruants plide Thy painfull Plough, and whilest, on euery side Thy Asses fed about vs, as we wrought, There sallied forth on vs (suspecting nought, Nor ought intending, but our chearfull paine) A rout of rude Sabaeans, with their Traine Armed with Death, and deafe to all our Cries, Which, with strong Hand, did in an houre surprize

All that thou hadst, and whilest we stroue (in vaine To gard them, their impartiall hands haue slaine Thy faithfull seruants, with their thirsty Sword; I onely scap't, to bring this wofull word.

No sooner had he clos'd his lips, but see! Another comes, as much agast as he: * 1.3 A flash of Fire (said he) new falne from Heauen, Hath all thy Seruants of their liues bereauen, And burnt thy Sheepe; I, I alone am He, That's left vnslaine, to bring the Newes to thee.

This Tale not fully told, a third ensues, * 1.4 Whose lips, in labour with more heauie Newes, Brake thus; The forces of a triple Band, Brought from the fierce Caldaeans, with strong hand, Hath seyz'd thy Camels, murther'd with the Sword Thy seruants all, but Mee, that brings thee word.

Before the ayre had cool'd his hasty Breath, * 1.5 Rusht in a fourth, with visage pale as death: The while (said he) thy children all were sharing Mirth, at a Feast of thy first sonnes preparing, Arose a Wind, whose errand had more hast Then happy speed, which with a full-mouth Blast, Hath smote the house, which hath thy children reft Of all their liues, and thou art childlesse left; Thy children all are slaine, all slaine together, I onely scap't to bring the Tidings hither.

So said, Behold the man, whose wealth did flow Like to a spring-tide, one bare houre agoe, With the vnpattern'd height of Fortunes blest, Aboue the greatest Dweller in the East; He, that was Syre of many Sonnes but now, Lord of much People, and while-ere could show

Such Heards of Cattell, He, whose fleecy stocke Of Sheepe could boast seuen thousand, in a flocke, See how he lyes, of all his Wealth dispoyl'd, He now hath neither Seruant, Sheepe, nor Child; Like a poore man, arose the Patient Iob, (Stun'd with the newes) and rent his Purple Robe, Shaued the haire from off his wofull head, And, prostrate on the floore he worshipped:

Naked, ah! Poore and naked did I come Forth from the clozet of my mothers Wombe; And shall returne (alas) the very same To th' earth as Poore, and naked, as I came: God giues, and takes, and why should He not haue A priuiledge, to take those things, he gaue? We men mistake our Tenure oft, for Hee Lends vs at Will, what we miscall as Free; He reassumes his owne, takes but the same He lent a while. Thrice blessed be his Name. In all this passage, Iob, in Heart, nor Tongue, Thought God vniust, or charg'd his hand with wrong.

Meditatio tertia.

THe proudest pitch of that victorious spirit Was but to win the World, whereby t'inherit * 1.6 The ayrie purchase of a transitory, And glozing Title of an ages Glory; Would'st thou, by Conquest, win more Fame then Hee? Subdue thy selfe; Thy self's a World to thee:

Earth's but a Ball, that Heauen hath quilted o're With Wealth, and Honour, banded on the floore Of sickle Fortunes false and slippery Court, Sent for a Toy, to make vs Children sport, Mans satiate spirits, with fresh delights supplying▪ To still the Fondlings of the world, from crying, And he, whose merit mounts to such a Ioy, Gaines but the Honour of a mighty Toy.

But would'st thou conquer, haue thy Conquest crown'd By hands of Seraphims, tryumph'd with the sound Of Heauens lowd Trumpet, warbled by the shrill Celestiall Quire, recorded with a Quill, Pluck't from the Pinion of an Angels wing, Confirm'd with Ioy, by heauens Eternall King? Conquer thy selfe, thy rebbel thoughts repell, And chase those false Affections that rebell.

Hath Heauen dispoyl'd what his full hand hath giuen thee? Nipt thy succeeding Blossoms? or bereauen thee Of thy deare latest hope, thy bosome Friend? Doth sad Despaire deny these griefes an end? Despair's a whispring Rebbell, that, within thee, Bribes all thy Field, and sets thy selfe agin thee: Make keene thy Faith, and with thy force, let flee. If thou not conquer him, hee'l conquer thee: Aduance thy Shield of Patience to thy head, And when Griefe strikes, 'twill strike the striker dead; The Patient man, in sorrow, spies reliefe, And by the taile, he couples Ioy with Griefe.

In aduerse fortunes, be thou strong and stout, And brauely win thy selfe, Heauen holds not out His Bow, for euer bent. The disposition Of noblest spirits, doth, by opposition,

Exosperate the more: A gloomie night Whets on the morning, to returne more bright; A Blade well try'd, deserlies a trebble price, And Vertu's purest, most oppo'd by Vice: Braue minds, opprest, should (in despight of Fate) Looke greatest, (like the Sunne) in lowest state.

But ah! shall God thus striue with flesh and blood? * 1.7 Receiues he Glory from, or reapes he Good In mortals Ruine, that he leaues man so, To be o'rewhelm'd by his vnequall Foe?

May not a Potter, that, from out the Ground, * 1.8 Hath fram'd a vessell, search if it be sound? Or if, by furbushing, he take more paine To make it fairer, shall the Pot complaine? Mortall, thou art but Clay: then shall not Hee, That fram'd thee for his seruice, season thee? Man, cloze thy lips; Be thou no vndertaker Of Gods designes; Dispute not with thy Maker.

Lord, 'tis against thy nature to doe ill, Then giue me pow'r to beare, and worke thy Will; Thou know'st what's best, make thou thine owne Conclusion, Be glorifi'd, although in my Confusion.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Chap. 1. v 13.
• * 1.2

  The first Mes∣senger.
• * 1.3

  The second Messenger
• * 1.4

  The third Messenger.
• * 1.5

  The fourth Messenger.
• * 1.6

  Alexander.
• * 1.7

  Obiect.
• * 1.8

  Res.