Henry Purcell: O, I'm sick of life Z140

O, I’m sick of life! nor will control
My passion, but in bitterness of soul
Thus tear the air: what should thy wrath incense
To punish him who knows not his offence?
Ah! dost thou in oppression take delight?
Wilt thy servant fold in shades of night,
And smile on wicked counsels? Dost thou see
With eyes of flesh? Is truth conceal’d from thee?
What, are thy days as frail as ours? Or can
Thy years determine like the age of man,

That thou should’st my delinquencies enquire
And with variety of tortures tire?
Cannot my known integrity remove
Thy cruel plagues? Wilt thou remorseless prove?
Ah! wilt thou thine own workmanship confound?
Shall the same hand that did create now wound?
Remember, I am built of clay and must
Resolve to my originary dust.

O, since I have so short a time to live,
A little ease to these my torments give,
Before I go where all in silence mourn,
From whose dark shores no travellers return:
A land where death, confusion, endless night
And horror reign, where darkness is their light.
GEORGE SANDYS, paraphrasing Job 10