Classic Poem

Then Job: " O were my suff'rings duly weigh'd,
Were they together in one balance laid!
The sands, whereon the rolling billows roar,
Were less in weight, and not in number more.
My words are swallow'd in these depths of woes,
While storms of sighs my silent griefs disclose.
God's arrows on my breast descend in show'rs,
There stick, and poison all my vital pow'rs.
'Tis He, Who arms against a mortal bears,
Subdues my strength, and chills my heart with fears.
Do hungry asses in fresh pastures bray,
Or oxen low before full cribs of hay?
Or can unseason'd cates the gust invite?
What taste is in an egg's unsavoury white?
My loathing soul abhors your bitter food,
Which sorrow feeds, and turns my tears to blood.
O that the Lord would favour my request,
And send my soul to her eternal rest!
Deliver from this dungeon, which restrains
Her liberty, and break affliction's chains!
Then should my torments find a sure relief,
And I become insensible of grief.
O, by not sparing, cure his wounds, who hath
Divulg'd Thy truth, and still preserv'd his faith!
What strength have I to hope, or to what end
Should I on such a wasted life depend?
Was I by rocks engender'd, ribb'd with steel,
Such tortures to resist, or not to feel?
No hope, no comfort, but in death is left,
Thus torn with wounds, of all my joys bereft.
True friends, who fear their Maker, should impart
Soft pity to a sad and broken heart.
But O! the great in vows, and near in blood,
Forsake me like the torrent of a flood,
Which in the winding valleys glides away,
And scarce maintains the current of a day;
Or stands in solid ice, conceal'd with snow,
But when the loudly-storming south winds blow,
And mounted sun invades it with his beams,
Dissolves, and scatters his exhausted streams.
Who from the parched fields of Thema came,
From Sheba scorched with etherial flame,
In expectation to assuage their thirst;
Deluded, blush'd; and his dry channels curst.
So you now cease to be what once you were,
And view my downfall with the eyes of fear.
Have I requir'd your bounty to repair
My ruin'd fortunes? Was it in my pray'r
That you for me the mighty would oppose,
And in a just revenge pursue my foes?
If I have err'd, instruct me; tell wherein;
My tongue shall never justify a sin.
Although a due reproof inform the sense,
Detraction is the gall of impudence.
Why add you sorrow to a troubled mind?
Passion must speak; her words are but as wind.
Against an orphan you your forces bend,
And banquet with th' afflictions of a friend.
Accuse not now, but judge; you from my youth
Have known and tried me: speak I more than truth?
Unveil your eyes, and then I shall appear
The same I am, from all aspersions clear.
Have I my heart disguised with my tongue,
Could not my taste distinguish right from wrong? "