V.

JOB X. 9.

Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay, and wilt thou bring me into dust again?

T

HUS from the bosom of the new-made earth

Poor man was delv'd*, and had his unborn birth; The same the stuff, the self-same hand doth trim The plant that fades, the beast that dies, and him: One was their sire, one was their common mother, Plants are his sisters, and the beast his brother, The elder too; beasts draw the self-same breath, Wax old alike, and die the self-same death : Plants grow as he, with fairer robes array'd; Alike they flourish, and alike they fade: The beast in sense exceeds him, and, in growth, The three-ag'd oak doth thrice exceed them both. Why look'st thou then so big, thou little span Of earth? what art thou more in being man? I,† but my Creator did inspire

My chosen earth with the diviner fire

Of reason; gave me judgment and a will;
That, to know good; this, to chuse good from ill:
He put the reins of pow'r in my free hand,

A jurisdiction over sea and land;

He gave me art to lengthen out my span
Of life, and made me all, in being man :
I,† but thy passion has committed treason
Against the sacred person of thy reason:
Thy judgment is corrupt, perverse thy will;
That knows no good, and this makes choice of ill:

* Delv'd; i. e. dug.

+ I; i. e. Aye.

H

The

The greater height sends down the deeper fall;
And good declin'd turns bad, turns worst of all.
Say then proud inch of living earth, what can
Thy greatness claim the more in being man'
O but my soul transcends the pitch of nature,
Borne up by th' image of her high Creator;
Out-braves the life of reason, and bears down
Her waxen wings, kicks off her brasen crown.
My heart's a living temple, t' entertain
The king of glory, and his glorious train :
How can I mend my title, then? where can
Ambition find a higher style than man?
Ah! but that image is defac'd and soil'd ;
Her temple's raz'd, her altars all defil'd;
Her vessels are polluted and distain'd
With loathed lust, her ornaments profan'd;
Her oil-forsaken lamps and hallow'd tapers
Put out; her incense breaths unsav'ry vapors :
Why swell'st thou then so big, thou little span
Of earth? what art thou more in being man?
Eternal Potter, whose blest hands did lay
My coarse foundation from a sod of clay,
Thou know'st my slender vessel's apt to leak;
Thou know'st, my brittle temper's prone to break :
Are my bones brasil, or my flesh of oak?

O mend what thou hast made, what I have broke :
Look, look with gentle eyes, and, in thy day
Of vengeance, Lord, remember I am clay.

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S. AUGUST. Soliloq. xxxii.

Shall I ask, who made me? It was thou that madest me, without whom nothing was made: Thou art my maker, and I thy work. I thank thee, my Lord God, by whom I live, and by whom all things subsist, because thou madest me: I thank thee, O my Potter, because thy hands have made me, because thy hands have formed me.

EPIG. 5.

Why swell'st thou, man, puft up with fame and purse ?
Th' art better earth, but born to dig the worse;
Thou cam'st from earth, to earth thou must return;
And art but earth, cast from the womb to th' urn.