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That God ſhould do ſo too, and ſay, be curſt.
Roaring and ranting is his helliſh Note;
Quaffing ſo long, until his Senſes float;
Drunk like a Beast, he ſtaggers up and down,
Sleeps like a Hog, and is a Devil grown.
But oh! if God thus anger'd ready be,
To ſay, thou Fool I do require of thee
Thy Soul this Night, come give a juſt Account,
To what thy Stewardſhip does now amount ;
How dumb and ſenſeleſs would he ſtand to fee,
Hell ready to devour him preſently:
Fruitleſs would be his ſearch to find a Place,
'Mong Rocks to hide him from God's angry Face.
For Flinty Rocks, and Natures Hills that ſoar
Their Towering Heads fo high, will be no ſhore,
And all Things vaniſh by God's ſov'reign Pow'r.
Old Age with its Troubles.
But now ſuppoſe God ſuffers him to live,
Adds Mercy unto Mercy, and does give,
Him yet a longer Time of Life and tries
If he'll repent before Death ſhut his Eyes.
He fees that Life runs round like to a Wheel,
And wrinkled Years upon his Brows do ſteal;
Beſides gray Hairs upon his Head do grow,
Scatter'd it lies like to a drift of Snow.
A foggy Dimneſs doth his Eyes aſſail,
Sinking into his Head his Eyes they fail;
His Tongue does faulter, and his Hands they ſhake,
And with the Palſie every Limb doth quake:
His ſtaggering Billows cannot ſtand at all;
His Houſe is ſo decay'd tis near to fall;
His Age brings with it Sickneſs and Diſeaſe;
His Limbs ſo feeble are, ſeek ſluggiſh Eaſe;
His Pleaſure's gone, it doth him ſore annoy,
To think of Youth's Delight and former Joy:
His Mind doth Dream of Death before his Eyes,
And Death's pale Image doth his Soul ſurprize.
God's
