Heavenly pastime, or, Pleasant observations on all the most remarkable passages throughout the Holy Bible of the Old and New Testament newly allegoriz'd in several delightful dialogues, poems, similitudes, and divine fancies / by John Dunton, author of The sickmans passing-bell.

On Job's Temptation.

God questions Satan: Bo••••s is Iob's desert, In the perfection of a simple h••art. I••b's Faith was fervent; S••tan was as chill To yield it▪ but must yield against his wi••••; Condems it to be servile, to be bought With God's own coyn: Does Iob serve God 〈◊〉〈◊〉 nought? It is a common trick the Te••per uses▪ The Faith he cannot conquer, he abuses. Alas, that ••aith requires not so much praise, 'Tis a good Faith, as Faiths go now adayes: It is not strength••'d by the indulgent hand That blest his Labours, and inrich'd his Land, Puff out the Fire; his Faith will quickly chill: Satan puff tho••: nay, Satan puff thy will: Nor 〈◊〉〈◊〉, nor ••lou••▪ of small, or great estate, Are certain ba••g••s of God's love or hate. What's now to do? Poor Iob must be 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Of all his strong••r Herd••; Fire, sent from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Must burn his f••uitful Flocks, that none 〈◊〉〈◊〉 His house fall and all his Childer'n slain; And yet not curse? Alas poor Iob addre••ses His thoughts to heaven, he worships God •• ble••ses:

The lively Faith that can retain her God▪ May groan•• but seldom rave beneath the Rod. But what says Satan now? The hedge is broke, That fenc'd my Servant Iob? What further Cloak For his uprightness hath he? What pretence For his continual Love and Innocence? Has not thy malice had her own desire? 'Twas soundly puf••'d, thy puffs has blown the fire: Gods trials are like bellows: Satan's blower, Blows out false Faiths, makes true ones blaze the more: True, Lord, his faith is tough; but Snailes as well Can thrive without, as live within their shell: To save alive who would not lose some skin? Touch but his Horns, O how hee'l draw them in. Satan, I give thy malice leave, be free To peel the Bark, but spare to touch the Tree; Fear not the li•••• flock: The great••st ill Your f••es can do's to scratch: They cannot kill: What now's th' exploit? Afflicted Iob does lie, A very Hospital of ••••••sery: I think that all the Vlcers, that have bin In Egypt cur'd are broken out again In his distempered flesh; Iob is still The very same, not charg'd ••is God with ill. A Faith th••t lodges in a double Brest, May stand the touch, non•• ••ut true faith the Test. If these be ••lames poor man must swelter in, He needs a World of patience, not to sin.